The King of Limbs
by Zeitgeist84
Summary: "After the war, I thought it would be easy. Work with the Aurors, get married, have children. Buy a big house, play Quidditch with the kids—be a family man. But, well, you know how it goes. Terrorism. Drugs. MI-7. England. And of course, here I am, stuck in the middle of it. Some things never change, I guess." Post-DH, EWE. HP/HG
1. The Green Light

Disclaimer: All things Harry Potter belong to JKR.

Summary: Combination of the original chapters one and two.

Also, a note of warning: While it doesn't really factor into the rest of the fic, except for the ramifications of the acts done in this chapter, there is some swearing (as the characters are all adults by now), and included are themes that might be considered disturbing to some, particularly the physical abuse of children. I will not pull any punches. You've been warned.

* * *

The King of Limbs

_"You start to tell the story, you think you're the hero, and then when you get done talking..."  
_- Det. Jimmy McNulty, _The Wire_ S05E08 "Clarifications"

* * *

Part One: The King of Limbs

"Don't mind giving me the trade name?"  
- Ron Weasley

I: The Green Light

* * *

_August 26, 2002. 9:00 P.M.  
__Bristol, UK_

"Red tops! Red tops!" Yells the old man on the corner of a dark Bristol street, limping to and fro on the cobbled lane.

Get your Red Tops. All of them here, all of them now. Just a simple call, vague and unassuming, and like clockwork, denizens of the night yet unseen rise from their hovels and homes made of rubble like the living dead, all for a chance to get some of those Red Tops. They stalk and stumble in the nighttime shadows, passing through and around the tout, never seeing who he is as they continue their mad rush to oblivion. Further on, five men; two white, two black, one of some race not quite identifiable, await the coming sales with uncaring glowers as bright a volatile as the glowing tips of the cigarettes they suck like life-giving water.

A young man, seeming to be in his early twenties with jet black hair that stuck up in all corners and astonishingly green eyes, looks upon the scene impassively.

Harry Potter never thought he would see this day: fourteen wizards and witches, befallen some terrible stroke of fate or un-luck line up next to a great brick wall as these five men, no doubt wizards themselves, look them up and down. The Fiends, that's what the Magical Law Enforcement Agents call them, wear simpering smiles to get a taste, a little inkling of the great and mighty Red Top. They hold out fat gold coins, and Harry briefly wonders what half of them had to do for that money, which the men with cigarettes grab at greedily, having them throw it into a large, and no doubt charmed, rubbish bag.

One of the men's eyes flick towards the tout, a choleric, sallow-faced, middle-aged white man with graying straw-blond hair a few sparse hairs lining his jaw in what might be called an excuse for a beard, and tosses a number of those fat gold coins to the man.

Harry feels a pressure in his stomach, that snake-in-the-belly come back for another meal. It has been coming on and off for the entire day. Quickly, before he can even have the chance to think about it, Harry pulls a pack of cigarettes from his jacket and lights one quickly, taking a long and deep drag, looking into the carton.

There are only two cigarettes left. He will have to conserve.

The tout whom has just earned four galleons, the large gold coins Harry had seen being exchanged, returns the corner and looks directly at the raven-haired wizard as he calls for any last Red Top-hopefuls. "Red Tops! Red Tops!" He again cries out. The fourteen wizards and witches are being handed small vials of some liquid, viscous material of a chartreuse color, plugged by a red stopper.

_Agilian_, is the word that comes to Harry's mind as the vials exchange hands. Agilian, the new wonder-drug of the wizarding world. With an economy in shambles due to Voldemort's power play about four years ago, it comes as no surprise to the Potter that drugs have become the go-to for many a down-on-their-luck wizards. Hermione Granger calls it a 'travesty' that all these people have turned to chemical happiness over trying to fulfill their lives in 'constructive ways', but Harry can understand their pain. He saw first-hand the horrors of the war, and how it affected those around him psychologically. Perhaps Hermione is much stronger than the rest of England, because Harry has seen people change entirely.

Some for the better in Draco Malfoy, Harry's one-time enemy, who saw firsthand the torments that Voldemort had afflicted on his family. Naturally, that had given the young man things to think about. And when Harry and Draco found themselves in Auror School, with Harry a year above and abusing Time Turners as if there were no tomorrow, they had both realized that they were not so different. But far more often, Harry knows, people are changed for the worse. That is state of affairs after a costly and damaging war. They lose their homes, their families, their fortunes, and who wouldn't like to numb that pain just a little bit? Magic is at a loss when it comes to that; there are numerous spells to harm others, but no spells for pleasure. Here, Potions come in handy, and Agilian is the latest wonder-potion to be abused by the rich and poor alike.

So the question begs to ask again: Who _wouldn't_ like to numb the pain just a little bit?

Harry would know, as he shares the same vice as the fourteen wizards and witches, now assembling into a small coterie, discussing the Agilian package as if it were the daily mail.

But, not today, not now. Harry has places to be besides a dark, dank, Bristol Corner.

He slips away from the shadows he has been standing in and moves onward into more favorable territory, though not much better. Bristol has become, perhaps, the filthiest city in the UK for wizards after the War. While the muggle areas remain relatively unchanged, the Wizarding Section has not, considering Harry has left a drug corner and now finds himself stumbling upon a bordello.

But, fortunately, he has no business there, either, and spares the large tavern-esque building no more than a passing glance. Where he needs to go is farther away, and similar to the brothel, but a little more dodgy. So, into the inner-city Harry goes, seemingly unaffected by the moral decay around him.

No one really had understood why Harry chose to move to Bristol from London little over a month ago. Ginny Weasley, Harry's now ex-girlfriend, was not entirely happy with the move. Of course, she plays it off well. The Weasley says she never liked Bristol, and so she would not be moving in with him. Privately, the Weasley told Harry that he was far too obsessive about his job. 'To the point where it seems like it's an addiction' she had told him.

Maybe it is an addiction. He does very much enjoy catching dark wizards.

Harry cuts across an alleyway, stumbling out to another depressing street, but closer to his destination. Mrs. Weasley, Ginny's mother, is also rather unhappy with Harry's sudden aloofness, taking it upon herself to bring the Potter back into the fold and get him reacquainted with her one and only daughter. Fortunately, he has cut out all means of communication, what with multiple anti-apparition wards around his flat and purposefully searching for an apartment without a fireplace, to make it impossible to floo. In fact, irony of ironies, the only way to contact Harry Potter when he is away from office is by a bit of muggle technology: the mobile phone. Most of his subordinates avoid using them, as Ron finds the 'blighted things' too hard to use and Draco deems the technology beneath the grace of being used by his aristocratic hands.

The only person who does, in fact, endeavor to contact Harry in the preferred manner is Hermione. And, judging by the chirping of his mobile, said woman is calling him right now. Harry picks up:

"Hermione," he quietly says into the receiver.

"Harry," she greets, sounding rather content, "Would you like to join Ron and I for a drink?"

Harry snorts. "You do realize I live a hundred and fifteen miles from you two, right?"

Well. One-hundred fifteen from Ron, one-hundred twelve from Hermione's.

Said witch snickers. "You do realize you're a wizard with the capability of Apparition, right?"

"No. It actually didn't occur to me."

"Figures," Hermione chides playfully, "Why did you get that flat anyways? I thought you liked London. Your place before was nice. Your new flat's all cramped and-"

"-Cozy," Harry corrects; he can almost see his friend's grin at the other end of the line.

"Hm. I suppose," she replies, sounding like she doesn't believe it, "but, still, why?"

"Closer to work," Harry grunts.

"That's the worst lie I've ever heard. You work at the OIM. In London. Not Bristol."

Ah, yes, the Old Irish Metre, or OIM. Where all Aurors have moved post-Voldemort. Harry hasn't a clue why it they named it so, only that the new Minister had chuckled and said something about the Muggle Police when he'd heard the name.

"Who said it was for that kind of work?" Harry questions lightly. Hermione pauses, he can sense confusion at the other end of the line:

"Then for what kind of work?"

Harry puts on a deliberately mysterious tone. "To rid the world of evildoers."

Hermione laughs, but says nothing, so Harry continues: "Actually I've got a ton of real work to do tonight. DSI Granath has been up the arse for my reports, and seeing as Ron doesn't actually know how to write, I've been stuck with all of them. You two enjoy your night, I'll probably be dead tired by the time I'm finished anyway."

"You could bring the reports over, I could help you."

Harry stiffens a reflexive smile into a thin frown; it would be like Hermione to suggest helping on Auror reports. "Auror protocol, Granger. Can't show you any of our reports."

"Oh," she remarks, "But, Ron-"

Harry knows Ron uses Hermione as his personal scribe, or at least his editor, considering the near professional-quality reports that end up on Granath's desk, something Harry's Ginger-haired friend is not known for. "That's because Ron's an idiot. And it's not Department Protocol. He's going to get dinged on that someday if he isn't careful."

"I know, I know, Harry. 'Tell him to be more careful and to stop being stupid'."

Harry nods. "You know me too well. Have a nice night. And don't let Ron drink too much, I can't have him at work all bottle-ached."

"I'll make sure to tell him, mum," Hermione sighs, sounding wonderfully discontented.

Harry smiles. "Thank you."

"Bye," she responds, sounding mildly disappointed.

"Bye."

Harry snaps the phone shut and continues his trek.

He passes a few more streets, and a few more dealers with their touts advertising their own Agilian-concoction: 'Black Heads'; 'Fat Man', after the muggle nuclear weapon; 'The Queen'; so on and so forth. Harry, once again, feels a little pang in his stomach, but the cigarette does its job and keeps the snake away.

Finally, in the distance, Harry spots the building he is looking for: A small tavern with a painted sign overhead, which reads: 'Basilisk Fang'. Harry thinks the name sounds stupid, but he continues towards its large, open, oaken door and steps inside. Fortunately, through use of a glamour charm, very few people will recognize the famous Harry Potter. Besides, it likely wouldn't be good for the image if Harry was found hanging around this area of the city.

The Tavern, as one would expect in this area of Bristol, is as dodgy as the corners that surround it. It appears to Harry that some of the prostitutes from outside have expanded their business into the saloon, seeking the next drunkard, honing in on him like prey. And, as tempting as cheap firewhiskey and whores sounds to the Auror, he decides against his feebler judgment and remains concentrated on his task, seeking the small door in the back where a large, intimidating bouncer steers away any drunk fellows.

"An Uzi? What the fuck kind of muggle plonker does that shortarse thing he is?" A patron, red-faced, and clearly drunk exclaims, "We're in Bristol, not fucking Los Angeles!"

Harry ignores the man's foul mouth, rubs his eyes, a docile blue color, now, due to the glamour charm, and marches up to the bouncer:

"I'm looking for The Broker," he says quietly.

The bouncer eyes Harry, seeing only a blond-haired, blue-eyed man staring back at him. "'Uh dun' know no Broker."

"Sure you do," Harry replies, "he's a good bloke."

"'E's a dead bloke."

"Well, you know what they say: 'Dead gods will not save you', and all. Now let me in."

The Bouncer's back stiffens with the 'Dead gods' comment. He straightens out and leans back into the door as it magically opens behind him. "Be quick," is all the man says, moving aside so Harry can step through.

From the outside of the building, one would be hard-pressed to imagine that this area of the Tavern even exists. Strangely, Harry feels somewhat like he's entered a shop owned by quite a dedicated Voodoo Priest. There is a faint musty order in the air, and the lights are dimmed, for mood, no doubt. Harry steps inside uncertainly as the room seems to grow darker in his presence. A sneakoscope on a far away shelf, next to what Harry thinks might be an actual human skull, reflects Harry's image back at him. As is etiquette with The Broker, one must wait at the oddly shaped front desk of his, displaying all sorts of unsavory trinkets and what appears to be a plethora of muggle firearms.

"You know, I'm surprised that glamour charm fools anyone," a voice emerges from the darkness, "You can't hide your magic _that_ well, Harry." A tall, beautiful woman emerges from a bead-curtain from a doorway off to the far-right of the room.

"Perhaps not, Helene, but, then again, a simple glamour charm can't hold up to a live Metamorphmagus, can't it?" Harry counters, dispelling his charm, eyes and hair reverting back to their original green and black.

Helene de Beauvoir, a English-born French witch of about thirty-two, steps out into the dim light of the room, long, lustrous black hair trailing behind her as she turns her eyes a bright, vivid green. "Yes. That's true. We're like twins, now."

"Fantastic," Harry drawls. Helene cocks her head, before shifting her features once more, to her normal auburn hair and ice-blue eyes. Even without the use of her abilities, Harry admits that the woman is shockingly pretty.

"Please don't tell me you want more guns," she sighs, "I'm running very low, and it takes quite some time to magick them as you want."

"Not tonight, Helene," Harry waves a hand dismissively. "Just information." Helene is, perhaps, the best information broker in all of England, and it is no contest who's at the top in Bristol. Her company, however, is usually a lot more _unsavory_ than the raven-haired Auror, so she wears a lazy grin:

"My, aren't we investing in clichés tonight?"

"What?"

"Never mind," the woman huffs, before grinning and splaying her arms outwards, a tad theatrically. "What is it that the Great Harry Potter needs? Your wish, as they say, is my desire."

"I-"

"No, wait," Helene brings a finger to her chin in a thoughtful expression, "That Savernake Murder from this morning. The Prophet says it's a sign of things to come. Purebloods and Muggleborns at the center of it. Tell that Healer friend of yours to watch out."

Harry never did like it when Helene mentioned his friends. He hopes they don't continue down that line of discussion.

"Never mind her," Harry replies, "I had a feeling this morning that the murder took place in an iron-smelting foundry."

"Using his talents again?" Helene cryptically interrupts. "You know better than to do that-" she paused, and let out a long-suffering sigh, "-Tell me exactly what you saw this morning."

Harry eyes Helene warily, but she has never been anything but helpful, so he takes a deep breath and recounts his story:

* * *

_August 26, 2002  
__Savernake Forest, Wiltshire, UK_

"We're close, mate. We're so bloody close."

"I don't know about that. Look, we've got another body reported, that can't possibly be good can it?" Harry replied to a young man with shock-red hair, "But, we can't let ourselves get too involved, can we?"

"Yeah, I reckon you're right," the taller man, the redhead, said whilst scratching his forehead and stepping over fallen branches, "I just want to get this case wrapped up in time for Hermione's birthday."

"I'll try, but this case has been ongoing for months, and looks like we're getting closer, but who the hell knows if we'll catch him by then," the raven-haired wizard replied, "Some pureblood circles are telling us to just leave them be. He'll be in the wind once the Hogwarts Express leaves in four days, anyways."

"Arseholes, the lot of them!" taller man spat, "But, you know Hermione. She's a muggleborn, she can't stand for all this backlash and... I'd feel much better if we could put this behind us by her birthday."

The taller man, named Ronald Weasley, jammed his hands into his pockets and leaned against one of the trees, trying to seek shade from the dripping water. He let out a wistful sigh and stared up into the sky, no doubt thinking about the coming birthday. However, a light slap to the temple broke him from his reverie before it can even start:

"Ow, bloody hell, Harry! What was that for?"

Harry snorted. "Look lively, Ron. Everyone's favorite healer can wait until _after_ the case." Harry, apparently satisfied with his warning, turns and stalks away to another part of the forest where more people gather.

"Bleedin' mental," Ron said, doing his best to sound cross but sounding more comical than anything, rubbed his temple as he follows Harry.

It might have taken a pause to survey how strange a scene like this unfolded in this nondescript forest: a total of twelve people in robes and armor stood around a small and rancid hunk of meat laying at the epicenter of the circle of druids. Though at one point in his life, very long ago, Harry might have been frightened by the strange, shadowy men by the rotting carcass, he was no longer, and took long strides, splattering up mud and broken twigs as he reached the first of the robed men:

"Longbottom!" Harry barked, noticing an equally tall man wrapped in new maroon robes, contrasting from the well-worn and slightly tattered black robes of Ron and Harry's. The man in the maroon robes turns around and levels a curious eye at Harry:

"DCI," he replies respectfully, folding his arms behind his back in the traditional Army stance.

Harry's hard countenance softened. "No need for the respect with me, Neville. I'm still Harry, remember?"

"Right, Harry," Neville Longbottom replied, relaxing his stance, before turning and urging the two newcomers to follow, "We've got another body. It's that girl who went missing mid-August: Dana James. Fits with our man's _Modus Operandi_; severing of the arms, genital mutilation, and the use of a muggle-method of killing, known as Glasgow Smile-" Neville suddenly stops. Harry and Ron pause with him:

"What is it?" Ron asked.

Neville looked around, shrinking under his hood. "It's just that... that sounded a bit... clinical."

Ron snorts, and looked like he was about to say something sarcastic when Harry laid a reassuring hand on Neville's shoulder: "It always sounds a bit more clinical each time. But remember, it affects you no less."

Neville smiled and nodded at Harry's lie. Better to believe for right now that the shock of finding a mutilated body never subsides. Harry knew, being an Auror longer than many of the young men at this crime scene, that it just happened some day. _You just stop feeling anything for the body in front you_, Harry thought,_ and it becomes just that, a body_. But, the man in front of him had always been a sentimental and kind young man, and perhaps Neville could be the one to surprise him.

Harry, quite rightly, doubted it.

But it got Neville to move on quickly. "Malfoy is inspecting the body right now. Sorry. No one from St. Mungo's yet." Neville nods to Ron apologetically. Draco and Ron have never gotten along well. And for most of that period, neither did Harry.

While Harry and Draco got along much better these days, it took no great leap of logic to say there is no love lost between the said blond and redhead. Throughout their years at Hogwarts, Draco tormented Hermione Granger, Ron's then-friend and now-girlfriend, mercilessly for being a Muggleborn witch. Harry or Ron would come to her defense, and then Malfoy would make fun of them, and then Hermione would come to their defense... and so on went the vicious cycle. Harry and Draco were able to bury the hatchet due to an extended mission in Romania two years ago. Some of the muggle technology left the normally nominally racist pureblood in awe.

The same, however, could not be said of Malfoy-Weasley relations.

"Bleedin' Malfoy," Ron grit his teeth; Harry chuckled.

"He's not so bad, not anymore, at least," Harry replied, "still a git, yes, but we're on the same side, now, right?"

"That doesn't change that he is a gargantuan tosser," the Ginger-haired wizard replied.

"Naturally," Harry deadpanned.

"I feel so loved," a bored drawl came from off to the side. Harry turned to see the handsome, but sneering, pale face of Draco Malfoy staring back at him. "DCI Potter, this way, please. We've got the girl here. As Longbottom says, definite mutilation, and, of course, she's a Mud-_Muggleborn_."

Ron leveled a furious glare at Draco, who simply shrugged:

"I don't mean to offend," he apologized in a tone that did not make him sound like he meant it, "I had forgotten you and Granger were an... an _item_. Truth be told, I had expected her and the Great Potterini to start shagging years ago."

Ron's face began to turn a purple color and Harry had the decency to blush.

"Thought _for sure_ you two were a better match," Draco continued to mock the Weasley, rapidly becoming furious, by speaking to Harry. "Granger is such an idealist. Bloody annoying, but one thing I cannot deny is that she's _clever_. To think she'd end up shacking up with the Boy-Who-Puked-Slugs, who wouldn't know the difference between a wand and his gentleman-sausage! She's gotten fairly pretty, too. Pity, really. You missed out, Potter."

"Detective-Inspector," Harry warned Draco, now chuckling lightly at Ron's expense, "Would you like to be sent home from _another_ case?"

"Not really," the blond replied spryly, "Astoria's being quite annoying as of late. She's been wanting me to buy her that bloody ring."

Despite Draco's blaisé response, Harry knew the blond was quite at loathe to return to his London residence that he and his girlfriend, Astoria Greengrass, shared. And despite that the younger Slytherin chose a career in Pediatric Healing, there were rumors she had learned quite a few nasty hexes from her sister, Daphne, another Auror whom Harry had heard was working in the Anti-Terrorist Department.

Needless to say, if Astoria was displeased with her boyfriend in any way, she could throw around a few jinxes of her own.

Having known this, Harry smiled smugly. "Then I would advise you to shut it."

Malfoy, clearly disappointed with the brevity of his latest bout of Weasley-baiting, tried to salvage some pleasure out of the situation by sending one last pleased look at Ron before leading the trio, Harry, Ron, and the normally quiet Neville Longbottom to the body. It was covered by a white tarpaulin that Harry found himself rather at loathe to remove. But, this was his job, after all; exchanging a look with Ron, they both grasped a corner of the heavy cloth and lifted it off the rotting husk, a putrid scent assaulting their senses almost immediately. Harry took one look at the face of what once was a cherubic young girl and shook his head. Ron closed his eyes and took a steadying breath.

"Horrifying," Neville remarked quietly, looking at the body.

"How long has it been here?" Harry asked.

"Nothing solid yet without an autopsy," Malfoy answered, "But I'd venture to guess, based off decomposition alone, anywhere from three-to-five days."

Harry ran a few diagnostic tests. Once finished, he groaned. "No information whatsoever. Pretty much the entirety of the torture was done without magic." The tarpaulin was replaced to keep the smell at bay.

Malfoy snorted. "A Muggleborn-hating Pureblood using muggle means to torture his victims. I don't know whether to call him a genius or a hypocrite."

Harry raised an amused eyebrow.

"Er... a genius in a de Sade sort of way," the blond quickly amended.

Harry grinned; Neville and Ron simply looked confused, now. "Genius and psychoticism are not the same thing," the DCI said.

"Thin line between, Potter," Draco smirked.

The DCI crouched to get a better look at the face. The cutting was done with an enchanted knife, he was sure, feeling out the trace elements of magic. It was a gory scene, and Harry brought up a gloved hand to his nose to keep out the slightly rancid scent of the little girl's body. With a soft, but audible pop, Harry felt another presence coming up behind him:

"Healer Granger," he drawled lazily, lifting up the cloth to get a better look at the girl. Her torso waspockmarked with angry slash marks, and her chest was in even worse shape. It looked rather like a dog attacked her, instead of a wizard. The cuts were greenish-yellow, either the sign of some insidious magic, or a natural infection of her wounds. Truthfully, Harry would have rather not looked down any further, and leave the rest of the quick autopsy to the Healer who had just Apparated behind him:

"Another one," her soft voice returned, no hurt or shock, just resigned acceptance.

Harry nodded slowly, staring at the girl's terrified, lifeless eyes: "Another one," he echoed.

As he surveyed the more obvious wounds, Harry finds feeling a strange urge. A snake in his stomach, curling, and coiling from its long slumber. It is hungry, it needs to be satiated. He knew what this meant, and tries to ignore it, even though he knows the snake-in-the-belly will only hiss louder the longer he pays it no mind. In only fifteen seconds, he was already sweating and his hands are shaking. This does not go unnoticed by his Healer friend:

"Harry?" Hermione asked; Harry refuses to meet her eyes, "Are you okay?"

No. He was not. But he would be. All he needed was one cigarette. Just to take the edge off. Just to... "Sorry, Hermione," he replied, feeling that snake in the pit of his gut slithering around, yearning for release. "I'm dying for the day's first tab."

Hermione made a face. "You know those will kill you, right? Bad for teeth, too."

"Least of my worries," Harry replied lightly, pulling a pack from inside his robes. He peered inside the open carton, finding thirteen death sticks sitting inside. Not good, but he knew its better than the alternative. "Besides, I'm not trying to attract anyone."

Harry conjured a flame with his wand and lit the cigarette, taking a long drag, feeling the snake in his belly slink away, moderately satisfied for now. Suddenly, he felt more acutely aware, as if his mind was roused from previous sluggishness to peak performance. Harry took another gander at the body, and sniffed the air, noticing something he had not earlier:

"I'm thinking this one was killed at some sort of foundry," Harry observed, pinching his nose. "Probably one that was recently abandoned."

"Foundry?" Ron quipped suddenly, "Why a foundry?"

"You can smell it on her," Harry replied, releasing his nose, "Sulfur Dioxide. She must have been inhaling it. Granger, during the autopsy, would you mind having the on-call Pathologian inspect the inside of the lungs as well? It must be littered with the stuff. There aren't too many places in England that would have that kind of gas floating around except iron foundries. Which would give me Doncaster and Bristol as possible perpetrators. Leaves London out-"

"-why?" Asked Ron.

"Too much suspicion there. The entire Ministry of Magic operates in the middle of London. Too many people, too many opportunities of escape and being caught. Bad if you're caught by the Muggle Police; worse if wizards catch onto your plan. Any sensible person would avoid the biggest city center in the UK."

"Respectfully, DCI-" Neville cut in whilst Harry is in mid-thought, but the Chief Inspector paid the rookie Auror no mind and plowed onwards:

"That leaves Bristol and Doncaster. Doncaster is too far, and it would make little sense to hide a body in Savernake Forest if one were in that city. There are better places to hide a body nearer to Doncaster..."

"But, DC-" Neville tried again, looking helplessly from a rather astounded Hermione to Malfoy, and then to Ron, whom spoke up:

"Don't bother, Nev. He's not speaking to us. Harry gets like this sometimes. I don't know where his mind goes, but somehow he always comes up with something relevant. Besides, even if you tried to stop him, he'd just continue on as if you weren't even there."

"Really?" Neville intoned; Draco let out a rather undignified snort:

"Once, I left for lunch while he got like this, an hour later, I come back to find him carrying on about the same subject as if I were in the room the whole time."

"...should probably test the soil on her trainers for heavy metals if so," Harry continued to himself, stalking off from the group and staring off into the distance, "Bristol's contaminated soil treatment facilities should have a lot of them nearby, maybe a foundry nearby an CSTE..." he pauses, staring off into the distance. The other members of his team not the sudden stop:

"What's wrong with him, now?" Neville questioned and Ron shrugged in response:

"He's thinking," the redhead replied, "I don't know, something about Auror Training School changed him. He was a smart bloke before, but he's scary brilliant when he wants to be, now."

"Hermione," Harry called, suddenly, causing the previously confused brunette to snap to attention, "you might know this. What is that tree over there?" Harry points to a large and ancient-looking tree with a blue sign planted in front of it. Hermione steps up to where he stands and squints:

"The King of Limbs..." she answered, looking at the blue placard in front of the ancient tree, "I don't know what that means."

"It's beautiful," was all Harry said, and he stayed for a moment, staring at this immense tree with its gnarled, curving branches, shooting outwards, onwards, upwards, and sidewards to the mournful sky above.

"It is," she agreed.

"Take the body, do the autopsy. I've got a million things to do, and I'll be spending quite some time in Bristol over the next few days."

"Bristol? How did you-"

"No time now, darling," he drawled, moving towards a safe Apparition point, "I've a million things to do otherwise."

* * *

_August 26, 2002 9:35 PM  
Black Fang Tavern, Helene's Quarters, Magical District, Bristol, UK_

"Sounds like you were trying to impress," Helene observes lightly.

Harry ignores her. "There was sulfur dioxide all around her, and the St. Mungo's autopsy came back positive for noxious gases normally associated with iron-smelting. I was thinking-"

"-that it must be nearby Bristol since Doncaster is too far and London is too crowded," Helene says, "Good thought. It would be difficult to Apparate that far. You'd be close. But, for me to give any more information, it would normally cost you. But since you're my favorite 'informee', I'll give us some extra privacy."

The door behind Harry locks shut and magically seals itself. Harry levels a questioning stare at the older witch:

"And your other _customers_?" Harry questions.

"Oh, sod them!" Helene huffs. "They still think I'm a _man_."

Harry quirks an eyebrow. "Well, you can't really blame them when you go walking around in a fucking _beard_!"

The beautiful witch's look turns dour, her irises shifting to a near-opaque milky color. "Do you want information or not?"

"Sorry," Harry quickly apologizes; Helene's eyes return their normal color and she assumes an air of nonchalance.

"Fahranar," she replies simply. "It's an old wizarding iron foundry from the Middle Ages no less than twenty kilometers from us, used by Purebloods primarily during the War of the Roses; it was decommissioned about fifty years ago when the demand for such weaponry decreased and the wizarding world underwent its last renaissance."

"Why have I never heard of it?"

"You wouldn't have. It's a very well-kept secret between some of the most elite families in England. Not even Scottish Purebloods know about it, and you can _completely_ forget about Halfbloods or Muggleborns."

Harry nods. "It would make sense. Pureblood foundry that no one really knows about. I might check this place out."

"You can't get in without someone who knows the way there. Too many wards just short of a Fidelius."

Harry gives Helene a narrow look. "And you'd just happen to know someone who knows the way there?"

"Naturally," the perky woman sniffs lightly, "it's my job to be informed of everything that goes on in the wizarding world. And, due to that, _I_ will be your guide to that big, abandoned foundry." Helene finishes with a leering, come-hither look.

"This isn't a come-on, is it?" Harry questions disdainfully. "Because it's the worst one yet, if so. And the answer is still no."

Helene seems rather dismayed. "Why not?" She asks petulantly, "You and the Ginger are finally through."

"Well, one: because you're an informant, and I'd rather not get strummed up with accusations of shagging you; and, two, don't call Ginny a Ginger," Harry replies, "And three, I'm not into geriatrics."

"Does she still love you?"

"I don't know. She seems to pursue me still, but she doesn't say anything."

Helene smiles mysteriously. "A woman doesn't tell when she's in love."

"Huh," Harry replies. "In any case, that's still a no."

Helene looks amused. "I could morph into the Ginger if you'd like-"

"No."

"-or that Healer girlfriend of your partner's. The bookish one. I could even wear one of those muggle candy-striper outfits."

"Stop talking."

"Well, regardless, Harry," Helene finally relents, "you do look stressed. All that extra garbage is getting to your head. It's making you loopy."

"It got to my head a long time ago. I'm already loopy," Harry says, smiling, making a pretend-handgun with his fingers, putting it to his temple, and proceeding to fire. Helene smiles:

"Fatalism. How _irresistible_!"

"_Shut up_, would you?" Harry drawls, thoroughly annoyed. Helene grins wolfishly, before turning her attention to more serious matters:

"Here, come back and visit me tomorrow night, I'll be more than willing to help you up to Fahranar, and in the mean time," Helene stops and bustles about, rushing back through the bead curtain and leaving Harry mid-sentence. A few moments later, she comes out with two vials filled with a deep, forest-green liquid, "You must take these. For the symptoms"

Harry's face sours. "I don't want that. I can't use that anymore."

"Harry," Helene pleads, pressing the two vials into his outstretched palm, "You've got the shakes, the rumblies in your gut, and pretty soon the headaches are going to come. This is the only way to calm them!"

"No, no," Harry shakes his head, reaching into his coat-pocket and pulling out the near-empty carton of cigarettes. "I've got all I need."

"You stupid man! And, what? Huffing a pack of fags every day is somehow helpful? And when you're forty and crippled by cancer?" The elder witch hisses, "You have to take this. Remember, this is my own concoction, and it's the only thing that will keep you in check."

"It's illegal," Harry murmurs, knowing it is terrible excuse.

Helene snorts. "Come off it, Harry, even you know that's a bad excuse."

Harry relents, taking the vials. "Your own formula, you say?"

"My very own. I call it 'The Green Light'; the purest, finest Agilian you'll ever come across. It'll make you feel _alive and free_. Because you're unburdening your mind. You take that, and you'll be yourself in no time."

"At what cost?" Harry asks, smiling ruefully.

"Oh, do _shut it_, Harry!" The elder woman snarks, slapping at his arm lightly, before unlocking the door and seeing Harry off. "Have a good night."

"You too," Harry responds, finding himself back out into the raucous atmosphere of the Basilisk Fang Tavern. Rather unhappily, he puts the two vials of Agilian in his coat pocket and heads out of the building. The warm, blustery wind caresses Harry's cheek as he looks around at the many corners, dealers on one side, whores on the other.

He sighs. "Verily," he remarks, feeling a bit philosophical, "these are my people."

* * *

_August 27, 2002 7:36 A.M.  
__Bristol, UK_

Harry is entranced. So, so, very entranced. The miracle of nature that stands before him, with its gnarls and curves and great branches, rising up to the mottled gray sky above, has left him in quite the state. He tries to say something, but no words come out. He just listens to the soft, crooning sound of the birds, and looks at the great tree, there like an immortal statue, fashioned by nature itself to say 'This is the beauty I can create'.

And, Nature, despite its terrific egoism, is correct about that one thing.

Harry reaches down and touches the turquoise sign in front of him.

"The King of Limbs," he breathes out, almost in awe, reading the words off the small sign in front of him.

There is a distant calling, a voice he recognizes almost instantly, but in the gloaming, he doesn't care for his partner's yells and screams for Harry to identify himself. There is just the King of Limbs. And that feeling. Like there's ginger ale sloshing around violently in his head. Everything turns to mush. He forgets to breathe. Darkness creeps in on the corner of his eyes. And he briefly experiences the sense of falling, like the time he and Hermione visited Avon Gorge in Bristol and stared down at the sheer vertical drop into the waters from Clifton Bridge, and hitting something in a loud and painful thud, before the darkness envelopes everything and anything he sees.

When he comes to, Harry finds himself haphazardly tossed upon the comfy black leather couch in his flat. On the coffee table in front of him are the two vials, one empty, the other still filled with the viscous, emerald liquid. He rubs his eyes and gets up from the couch, realizing he has not changed out of his clothes from last night. But that doesn't matter, he feels curiously clear-headed, for the first time in weeks. Helene's Agilian really is good, Harry muses. It should keep the pangs away for a week or two, at least.

First things first, however, Harry needs to hide the other phial of the drug. He can make wards later, for now, however, he needs a quick hiding place, which turns out to be a disillusionment charm and then chucking underneath the mattress of his bed. Once that niggling problem is dealt with, Harry hurries into the shower, brushes his teeth, and throws on fresh clothes, consisting of a slate blazer, a black button down shirt, a silver tie with stripes of black and a pair of dark jeans and loafers.

He rushes downstairs, realizing he is running late, only to run nearly headfirst into his landlady, Jenny Hudson, a delightful middle-aged muggle woman whose husband is impotent (though they don't know that Harry knows that bit of information), and they treat Harry like the son they never had:

"Hullo, Mrs. Hudson," he greets lightly, "I'm running late. I'll see you tonight, yes?"

The honey-haired woman smiles back, "Oh, yes, of course, Harry. Will you be joining us for dinner?"

"I don't think I'll get home that early. I've got quite a lot to accomplish today."

"Oh," Mrs. Hudson says, "Well, don't hesitate to ring me for leftovers when you _do _get in."

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson," he replies, kissing her cheek as he would his mother if she were still alive.

"Have a good day, dear!"

Harry steps outside of the apartment building and moves away towards the bank of the River Avon. Jamming his hands into his pockets, he walks down the length of the River on the sidewalk, whistling the tune to 'The Farmer in the Dell' as he moves along. Soon, the River begins to shimmer as he comes to Bristol Bridge. Harry looks down from the bustling muggle city and looks down at the water for a moment, and back up, to find a large wizarding town open up in front of him.

This is a more savory part of Wizarding Bristol than the area Harry had frequented last night. And it's a safe place to Apparate from. In a moment, once in a crowd of young wizards and witches, Harry concentrates on the familiar brick facade of his workplace and wills himself to go there. Soon, it feels like he's being squeezed through a garden hose, and with a soft, but audible pop, he lands in front of the Old Irish Metre, the Auror Headquarters situated on the outskirts of the Havering borough.

The building appears to be an amalgam of old and new. It was adapted in the way of most normal Wizarding buildings when first built in 1823, but new that the muggle Scotland Yard relocated and rebuilt their office building, Minister Shacklebolt had authorized a revamping of the Irish Metre so it could function as efficiently as the Muggle Police. Harry steps toward the large glass doors, where a coterie of unfriendly-looking guard Aurors await him.

"'Halt," comes a few voices all at once, and Harry raises his hand in acknowledgement before allowing himself to be checked by the guards. He is forced to present his wand as identification and take some form of Wizarding Biometrics test that Percy, Ron's older brother, had been yammering on about a few years back.

The guards relax after a few moments. "'Ello, DCI," one mutters respectfully and Harry gives him a curt nod, passing through the doors.

The lobby is impeccably constructed, and, as one would expect, even bigger on the inside than it looks outside. Metallic floors stretch on outwards to a large and open lobby with leafy plants placed at all four corners of the room and around the crescent-shaped receptionist's desk. Dead center of the room are couple of couches along with reading materials, directly to the right is the cafeteria, and straight ahead at the end of the lobby are a row of glass elevators that gives a fantastic view of the London skyline. He passes by the couches and swipes a copy of the Daily Prophet from the coffee table, hoping to read Ginny's article on the state of Wizarding relations between the United States and Russia, and how it could tip the balance of power in Europe once more.

From there, it is a quick trip to the cafeteria to buy an English Muffin and then on to the elevators. Once inside, Harry takes a long, wistful glance at the London skyline, marveling at how brilliant muggles and wizards alike are.

The lift stops on Level 5, where the Serious Crimes Unit, or SCU, is located. Harry takes a bite of the muffin, walks to his cubicle, and collapses in his chair whilst searching for Ginny's Article. Of course, it is set below the top news of the day, a blaring title: _FIFTH MUGGLEBORN FOUND DEAD IN SAVERNAKE FOREST; AURORS HAVE SUSPECTS IN CUSTODY_. Harry ignores it, as it will be completely based off unwholesome information (Harry has imposed a media blackout on the SCU, and they certainly don't have a man in custody), and prefers to read Ginny's Editorial:

_The Iron Curtain  
__By: Ginevra Molly Weasley_

_Since the fall of Lord Voldemort nearly five years ago, England has been forced out of its self-imposed political blackout and the U.K. finds itself in the centre of a brewing cold war between the Americans and the Russians, mirroring the situation the Muggle World was in no less than fifty-five years ago. A famous Muggle politician and son of a Squib, Sir Winston Churchill, described the sudden shutting down of communications between the Yanks and Soviets as an 'Iron Curtain' descending across the World, forever dividing the East and West. Today, we find ourselves locked in between these two powerhouses once more as we find ourselves staring down, not the likes of Josef Stalin or Leonid Brezhnev; Harry Truman or Gerald Ford, but rather the American Magical Secretary Daniel Halan and the Russian Premier Dmitri Abramov._

_With the failure to pass the AEL-TA (Americo-European League Tracking Association) Act last year, we have seen a souring of relations between the two most powerful wizarding countries. Threats of violence and retaliation for the perceived role of rogue Russian wizards in connexion with the Muggle Extremist Group al-Qaeda and the September 11th, 2001 Attacks coordinated on the World Trade Centers in New York City; the Pentagon in Arlington, Virginia; and the attempt on the White House in the American Capitol: Washington, D.C._

_MS Halan and Premier Abramov have not met since the AEL-TA Conference._

_This problem stems far deeper than most of the Wizarding Public of England are willing to look, as we are still struggling to exit our economic recession due to Voldemort's terrorist attacks in 1996 and through 1997._

_(Cont. on Page 6)_

"Hullo, Harry," comes Ron's voice from somewhere to Harry's right.

"Wotcher," Harry replies.

"What're you reading?"

"Ginny's article," Harry answers, "You want the Sports Section?"

Ron shakes his head, "No, I'm alright, saw it at my flat. But Ginny's article... it's good isn't it?"

"So far," Harry nods, "You read it?"

"Sort of," the redhead grins sheepishly, "didn't understand a bleedin' word of it, though. Hermione had to explain the whole ruddy thing to me. Especially the part about the Muggle Terrorists; they sound about as mental as Voldemort!"

Harry smiles reflexively, remembering a time when his best mate could not utter that name without nearly relieving himself in his trousers. He turns the paper to Page Six, hopeful for a nice, quiet morning. Reading his ex-girlfriend's article.

Yes. A little bit strange, he supposes.

"Potter!" Barks a gravelly voice from the large office way at the corner of the office.

Harry sighs, apparently his quiet morning is not to be. Ron gives him a 'What did you do?' look, to which Harry shrugs and tosses Ginny's article aside, stalking to the open door where a giant of a man with graying hair that was once a dark brown stands.

"Superintendent Granath," Harry greets.

"DCI," Granath breathes out.

William Granath is in many ways, Harry's mentor. The moment the boy came out of Auror School, the man, a DCI like Harry is now at the time, was teaching him how to hold his own in a duel where one was outnumbered, and furthermore, something they did not teach at Training School: How to think like a spook. It's the similarities between the two men that Harry has gotten a nickname from some of the more derisive (and likely jealous) Magical Law Enforcement Employees as 'The Little Granath".

"How are the Muggleborn murders coming along." He intones in his thick Scottish brogue; it is not a question.

"As you'd expect, not well," Harry replies, "I'm following a few leads, talking to a few informants. I might be getting somewhere."

Granath's unnaturally golden eyes narrow. "Not Helene de Beauvoir, I hope?"

Harry rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. Granath rolls his eyes:

"Watch yourself, Potter. She may be all bubbly and helpful to you, but remember the circumstances under which you met her. She's a terror if you aren't careful," the elder Auror warns, rubbing the stubble on his chin thoughtfully as his eyes flash angrily.

"What's she gonna do; grow out her hair and strangle me with it?" Harry deadpans, but his superior does not seem amused:

"You saw what happened to her husband and children. And you and I both know-"

"-We don't _know_-"

"We can as good as guess!" Granath snaps. "Helene de Beauvoir most likely _murdered_ her family in the most _brutal_ fashion I have ever seen-using the _Discerpa _to quarter _children_! Her _own_ children!-and the only reason she isn't rotting in Petre is because we didn't have enough _evidence_ to tie it to her!"

Harry pauses, thinking about the day he met Helene, before he speaks again, deliberately avoiding the subject of his informant. "How is it?"

The Superintendent blinks: "How is _what_?"

"Petre? You visited last week, didn't you?"

The elder man grunts and slides back into his seat. "Better than Azkaban, that's for sure," Granath replies. "Just as isolated on Elba, nice and far away from any Muggle eyes. Definitely more comfortable for the prisoner. But I don't know how comfortable I am knowing they're more comfortable."

Both men share a chuckle. "I'll watch out for Helene," Harry concedes.

Granath's normally harsh glare softens. "Yes, do be careful, Harry. And keep me informed. We have to catch this killer; the entire bloody nation is about ready to declare a state of emergency. Your girlfriend's article, the more important one actually got _shafted _in favor of this codswallop."

Harry grimaces.

"I'm serious, Harry. I'm not playing around; we have to catch this bastard before he does this to another kid. And by the time the Hogwarts Express leaves, he's in the wind."

Harry eyes his mentor warily. "I'm trying, but it isn't exactly easy when the man has left no magical trace whatsoever." Granath eyes Harry in just the same way, "I'm half-thinking to use Muggle techniques." Harry quickly adds.

"Interesting idea, but I don't think you'll get very far trying that," the Superintendent says, "Now get that sorry excuse you call a unit prepped. You are going to hit all the crime scenes today. Split your unit up. Maybe, with the luck of Merlin, we'll find something of use there."

Harry nods, exiting out the door.

* * *

_1:27 P.M.  
__Forests near Cardiff, U.K._

"We've searched bloody everywhere, _Priori_ and _Revelato_, and what do we get? Exactly what we got the first time! Nothing. Faint magical trace. Enough for us to know someone with magic did this. And what does that do? I'll tell you, it narrows our options down to 1.6 million people!" Draco mutters exasperatedly, stowing his wand after another round of Reductor curses at a tree that seems to have been unlucky enough to be in the blond's way.

"Malfoy!" Harry barks, "Preserve the crime scene, don't destroy it."

"Much as I hate to admit it, Harry, mate," Ron says, making lazy wisps of cloudy air with his wand, "but Malfoy's got a point. We're nowhere closer than where we started and we should all know by now that the crime scene is bleedin' bare!"

Harry knows that Ron and Draco make good points; this is entirely useless. They have spent too much time looking at the old crime scenes, and nothing has changed. They still cannot find a damn thing. Harry rubs his eyes, and turns to the other Aurors:

"You're right, we're not getting anywhere with this," Harry replies, getting ready to go back to gather their equipment when a loud crack cuts through the air.

Neville Longbottom emerges from where the sound came from and marches towards Harry, face white as a sheet:

"What's wrong?" Harry asks.

Neville lets out a gust of air. "Another one. The ruddy bastard's got another one!"

Suddenly, Harry feels much older than his twenty-two years as the quartet exchange tired looks and Apparate back to the OIM.

Once back, Granath hands Harry a small parchment with some of the most illegible handwriting he has ever seen upon it:

_Dear Chief Inspector,_

_I keep on hearing the police have caught me, but you won't fix me just yet. The Prophet was a right joke this morning. You're on the right track; you've found me; you don't want to release me to the public just yet. All those answers gave me real fits, you know? Grand work, the last one was. Nice and slow, all the time in the world for the little mudblood bitch to squeal. Lots of red ink and iron, if you'd ask me. As you can see, I love my work and I'm quite keen to start again. And I'm just dying to tell you who it is. She's a beautiful little girl, her name is Freya. Pretty name, foreign-sounding. You don't hear that one a lot. Maybe I'll save you an ear or two after I clip them off the lady. Ha ha. Four days, Boss Potter. _

_Good Luck._

_Your's truly,  
Aleister._

_P.S. Don't mind giving me the trade name._

Something strikes Harry as odd about the postscript, among numerous other incongruities in the letter. Where has he heard that line before? It seems so very _familiar_.

"Don't mind giving me the trade name?" Ron questions, "What the bloody hell does that mean?"

Draco frowns. "Never mind that. What does the name mean?"

Harry pauses, summoning a Quick-notes Quill to copy the letter down onto another sheet of paper.

"Could be Aleister Crowley," Neville supplies, mentioning the 19th and 20th century mystic, "he's been dead for years, but, maybe a fan?"

Superintendent Granath, now sitting in on the impromptu meeting, shakes his head: "Not likely. Crowley loved muggles, and was even an early advocate of Muggle-Wizard integration, or, at least education. He did not have very many Pureblood acquaintances, let alone _fans_."

"First things first, have you still got the owl this was delivered with?" Harry asks.

Neville nods. "Yes, sir. Intelligence is checking who it belongs to as we speak."

Harry looks over to Granath, who nods, signalling his allowing for Harry to take full-control of the case. "Take this parchment on the off-chance we can get a magical signature from it." He hands the paper to Neville, who puts on a brave grimace and hurries towards the elevator. "Dalglish," Harry addresses another one of his Aurors, "go out to meet Headmistress McGonagall at Hogwarts, she'll likely be able to give us the address of Freya. If she's anything like the last four victims, her parents may already be dead." The straw-haired Wizard turns on his heel and takes leave. "In the mean time, I feel like I've read something like this before. Somewhere."

"Well, we've got a whole library here," Ron says, shrugging, "As much as I hate reading, if we can find it there..."

"I don't think it was a magical book," Harry replies, settling down into a thinker's pose.

"Muggle?"

"Possibly."

"Potter, we just got done proving this guy does not like muggles; it's on the damned parchment!" Malfoy drawls, "Why would he be doing anything out of a muggle book? That's utterly illogical."

"Is it? It couldn't be... a joke?" Harry questions, face set in consternation, "Aleister Crowley was noted for his love of Muggles, seeking even to impart some of his knowledge upon them; maybe this Aleister is mocking the sentiment."

"That's a possibility," Granath nods, "And it could be a lead if we can't find an actual name from all of this."

"I think it is a little bit... off," Draco says; Ron turns and regards his nemesis questioningly:

"Off? Off how?" The redhead asks.

"Look at everything he's sent us. A letter on parchment with what appears to have magical traces left all over it. Sent by owl. He seems like he wants to get caught. Or, at least, let us know his name."

"Maybe that's it," Harry replies.

"What's it?" Ron questions.

"Maybe it's like a game for him. He's having fun doing this. He wants us to know exactly who he is so-"

"-So when he disappears and the girl is found dead after the Hogwarts Express leaves in four days, Granath's office, and your unit, specifically, looks bad," Draco finishes, his lip curling in disdain, "It's a rather bizarre way to get one's political statement out there."

Harry shrugs, turning to Ron, who looks confused. "Granath is pro-Muggle relations. And its no secret, what with one of my best friends being Hermione, where I stand on the issue of Muggle and Muggleborn treatment. It could work almost like a call to arms for all the Pureblood extremists out there: 'Harry Potter and William Granath can't stop us!', or something of the like."

"And, truthfully," Draco starts, looking as if he's treading dangerous waters, "it's an appealing call to Purebloods. Many of the ancient families feel as though they have been neglected in favor of pro-muggle legislation. Many think Minister Shacklebolt is a bleeding heart leading the Ministry to complete assimilation, rather than protecting the noble houses that were damaged by Voldemort."

Ron rounds on Draco. "Well maybe they _deserve_ to be left out in the cold!" The blond sneers at the redhead, realizing the interjection was only a thinly-veiled barb at his family's as well as his own actions during the war against Voldemort.

"Ron, calm down. He's only stating a fact," Harry says, trying to diffuse the tension. "It very well could work. But for now, I need someone to talk to about this damn letter." Harry smiles, "Someone who knows a _lot_ about Muggle Literature or news."

Ron cocks his head. "You're not saying-"

"Yeah, probably her," Harry nods. Granath will not be happy if he finds out Harry and Ron are speaking to their best friend about this, but what the Superintendent doesn't know won't hurt him.

"Okay," Ron nods, "Let's go."

"No you don't," Draco replies, holding the Weasley back by the scruff of his robes.

Ron looks furious. "What the _fuck_ are you doing?"

"If Granath finds out we're gone, he's going to be doubly angry that you spent time that you should be using for work with your girlfriend," Harry rationalizes. "I'll go see her. It won't take more than half-an-hour."

* * *

_4:19 P.M.  
__St. Mungo's Hospital, London, UK._

"Well," Hermione starts, her golden-brown eyes narrowing, trying to remember, "I don't think the letter itself is in any book I've read. Then again, I don't really remember every book I've read."

Harry's face falls. Practically every book (wizarding and muggle alike) he's read has been recommended to him by Hermione, so he thought if anyone would know, it would be her.

"Then were the bloody hell do I remember this from?" He questions to no one in particular, reclining on the couch of his friend's break room.

Hermione gives him an ironical smile, "It's not from a book, Harry," she says. Harry sits straight, now confused, "It's from a _letter_. Dear Boss."

"Dear... Boss?"

"One of the first Jack the Ripper letters sent to the Scotland Yard," Hermione says, moving from a table to the sofa Harry already occupies, scooting in close to show him the copy of Aleister's letter, "I remember reading about it, though not reading it directly, in one of my detective books from before Hogwarts. That postscript is taken word-for-word from that letter. And look at the first sentence. Does anything seem, I don't know, _off_ about it to you?"

Harry rereads the first line before his lips quirk into a smile. "He calls us the police."

"Exactly. Instead the Auror Corps, he calls you 'the police'. A muggle term. Doesn't that strike you a bit odd?"

Harry smiles, completely shocked that he had missed such a giant clue. "I didn't notice it at first," Harry replies, "but now that you've pointed it out..."

And suddenly, his mind is racing in all sorts of different directions. Why Jack the Ripper; why a muggle? Could this really just be a sick sense of humor? Play Muggle games the Wizarding police to mock the fact that he's been slicing up little Muggleborn girls? And the foundry, could that be where he's hiding the girl? It's shoddy detective-work, Harry knows, as he hasn't got an ounce of hard evidence to back him up other than that the murder likely took place at an iron foundry nearby Bristol. And then there would be the problem of Helene. She's the only one who can get Harry into Fahranar, but it what would he do with her if they came face-to-face with the murderer. He couldn't bloody well have her stand around and fire curses while waiting for Granath and the rest of his unit. And-

Harry's train of thought is suddenly broken by the laughter of the nearby brunette. "What's so funny?" He asks her.

"No, no, it's nothing," Hermione replies, hand over her mouth to cover her soft giggles, "Your face. You looked like you were about trying to blow something up with a glare."

"Oh, uh, sorry," Harry apologizes without knowing why. "Thanks for the info, anyway; you're a lifesaver, Hermione."

"It's no trouble, Harry," the honey-haired healer says softly, "I just want this Freya girl to be able to go to Hogwarts." Hermione trails off, looking downwards, no doubt at her shoes. "It's horrible, what he does to these children."

"Maybe it's better," Harry supplies quietly, at which Hermione's head whips upwards, her golden-brown eyes narrowed in fury:

"How can it be _better_?" She spits, likely offended that Harry even uttered such a thing.

Harry raises his arms up in defense. "Not that it happened in the first place," he explains his logic, "But afterwards. All the other girls' parents were killed, any siblings met the same fate. And, children who have been through traumatic experiences like that tend to blame themselves for the death of their family members. With all that emotional damage, maybe it's a mercy when he finally kills them."

Hermione casts her gaze downwards again, biting her lower lip. "I know, but... it's just... it's not right. It's horrifying."

Harry smirks in a wry manner. "The world usually is."

* * *

_5:10 P.M.  
Office of the Irish Metre, London, UK_

"DCI," a respectful voice from a young woman greets Harry at his desk with a large packet, "we've gone over analysis of the letter given to us. It has not tested for any magical evidence that would allow us to ID the writer, but we found more of the strange dust on the parchment that was also present in Ms. Knightley's lungs yesterday."

Oh ho, Harry thinks sarcastically, the plot thickens!

"We were also able to trace the owl that came in with the letter. It belongs to an Aleister Bulstrom," the Magic-Inspector says.

Bloody hell; the man had signed his own letter to the Aurors! He really is trying to prove a point!

"What's his angle?" Harry blurts aloud, asking the question more to himself than anyone else, but the Magic-Inspector takes that as a question Harry has asked her:

"I wouldn't know," she responds rather testily, "I just run tests."

"Sorry, wasn't talking to you," Harry replies gruffly; the inspector gives him a surprised look and then scurries away.

"I don't know how you landed Ginny with manners like that," Ron snarks from the side.

Harry snorts. "Well, you know why we broke up, then."

A Scottish voice breaks through their quiet banter. "I talked to Headmistress McGonagall. She says the only Freya that is coming to Hogwarts is a Freya Thompson, at One Halkin Street, London."

"Belgravia?" Ron whistles low. "Her family must be loaded."

Harry snorts as Draco materializes from seemingly nowhere. "Look lively, Malfoy, we're going out into Muggle territory. Have to check on the girl's family."

"Does that mean I have to put on Muggle clothes again?"

"Yes."

"Damn."

-/-/-

_5:25 P.M.  
__One Halkin Street, Belgravia, City of Westminister, London, UK_

Harry awaits Ron, Draco, Neville, and Dalglish as they stand outside the door to a rather palatial brownstone that should belong to David and Anne Thompson, a wealthy businessman and doctor respectively. As with all new money, they've likely kept their noses out of other people's business, and have few friends living nearby to come check on them if they have been killed.

Harry moves towards the door and raps on it with his knuckles two times. He quickly notes a doorbell to his side, and rings that as well after a polite waiting period.

No one answers the door.

He repeats the process twice. Still, no one answers. Harry looks at the four other men, and they all nod to each other, moving away from the house and into a nearby alleyway.

Harry taps his wand over his head when he sees the four men, looking rather awkward wearing Muggle plainclothes, and feels the wet-egg-running-down-his-head feeling of a Disillusionment charm. He watches as all his subordinates do the same and they all move back towards the house as chameleons, wands at the ready.

"_Alohamora,_" Harry whispers, pointing his wand at the doorknob, which clicks and opens in front of him, revealing a foyer characterized by hardwood floors and a warm orange creme glow from the paint on the walls. Nestled to the left are the stairs, and directly ahead down the hallway appears to be a large and spacious kitchen as well as a luxuriant dining room. But, rather than focus on that, Harry moves towards the drawing room, finding nothing but pictures of two brown-haired people and a girl who looks surprisingly like Hermione when she was that age planted onto the wall.

"Hm... pretty family," Harry remarks, walking around the drawing room to a large entertainment room.

"It's like they just up and left," Ron says, scratching his forehead.

Harry shakes his head, "Girl was likely kidnapped last night. While they were sleeping." The other Aurors' eyes widen at the revelation and they all turn to make their way to the staircase.

They climb each stair slowly, careful not to make any noise.

When they reach the landing, they make sure to be careful about entering each of the six rooms. One turns out to be a bathroom, and another turns out to be a work office for David. A third reveals itself to be a veritable library for Dr. Thompson, with a great deal of anatomical textbooks shelved upon the many bookcases.

This goes on until they come across Freya's room, decorated sparsely with a placid white glow and pictures dotting the walls. They all appear to only be with her parents. Harry briefly wonders if this girl has any trouble making friends, but then immediately pushes that thought out of his head.

The things are strewn across the floor and the bed has been left unmade. "Seems like a bloody hurricane came through here," Ron mutters.

Harry keeps quiet, moving out of that room to the master bedroom. He opens the door to find two lumps in the bed, completely undisturbed. Given that its five-thirty in the afternoon, Harry is pretty sure those bodies are not there by choice. He points to them so everyone has a clear view before moving into the large room. A small fireplace across the room from the bed burns with the embers of a fire from last night.

The Aurors spread around the large bed, flanking it as Harry slowly pulls off the covers. Two people, a man and a woman who look to be Mr and Mrs. Thompson, lay on the bed peacefully. Harry narrows his eyes, opening one of Mr. Thompson's eyes with his thumb. While looking in, he finds a brilliant green ring around the pupil which stands out against the brown of his eyes:

"Grant," he calls. Grantley Dalglish has the most extensive curse experience, so Harry could use him to confirm his suspicions, "Does that look like-" he points to the ring of green that has suddenly materialized around the pupil of a man who has had brown eyes all his life.

"Yep. Definitely the Killing Curse," Dalglish responds, folding his arms and furrowing his brows. "The Avada Ring proves it."

"I hadn't expected Bulstrom to be the type of person to allow the Ministry to tamper with his wand. I sure wouldn't." Draco says. Just after Voldemort's death, the Ministry had issued a countrywide call for refitting wands. As a result of this, if the _Avada Kedavra_ is cast, the victim's eyes would develop a green ring around the pupil, known as the Avada Ring. Some wanted to go even further and place magical tracers in the event that an Unforgiveable Curse was used, but most people do not like the idea of being tracked.

Even Harry was a little miffed by the suggestion; it was too much to ask and, frankly, rankled Big Brother-totalitarianism to him.

Harry shrugs at Draco's quip. "Well, he likely didn't allow the tracer to be implanted. Otherwise, we would have gotten the call hours ago."

"Must have been in a hurry to use the killing curse," Dalglish muses, "The last family had been practically butchered. Maybe saw someone and ran for it?"

"Unlikely, or we'd have a third body, wouldn't we?" Harry questions.

"Harry, mate," Ron calls from the front of the mirror of the Thompsons' expensive-looking dresser, "you may want to take a look at this."

Harry stands and glides over to Ron. "What is it?"

Ron hands the DCI a note, written on parchment. All it reads is _HdB- B.F. 7_.

"What do you make of that?" He asks as Harry nearly immediately decodes the message, "it's not the handwriting we saw on Bulstrom's original letter."

"And it doesn't appear to be either Mister or Dr. Thompson, nor does it appear to be their daughter. I've checked some of their notebooks." Neville's voice comes from behind Harry as the young man leans over Harry's shoulder to read the message.

Harry pauses for a moment, before giving a measured response. "No. It isn't. Don't know whose it could be." It's a lie. He knows exactly whose this is, though how she could have gotten the information before he did is beyond him.

There is the possibility that Helene, the _HdB_ initialing on the missive, is the one behind the murders, but, truthfully, that's illogical. Helene may be a Pureblood, but she works with many Muggleborns, all of whom she appears to be on good terms with. For her to go on a sudden crusade against all things Muggleborn does not sit right with her actions. So, Harry glances over his second option: she wants to tell him something she has learned, and needs him at the Basilisk Fang at seven o'clock.

But, he's got to be careful. He might need a second.

"Merlin, the bloody reports we'll have to file tonight!" Ron grumbles

The bloody reports indeed. Ron has always been Harry's six o'clock shadow, with the exception of fourth year and when he had left Harry and Hermione behind the year he fought Voldemort, and Harry could certainly use his red-haired best mate's help right about now.

When they finish with the crime scene and garner all the information they can, finding, without a doubt, traces of Aleister Bulstrom's magic all over the home, Harry calls Ron away from the group:

"Ron, have you got anything to do tonight?"

"Well..." Ron begins thoughtfully, "Hermione and I are going to The Burrow to have dinner with the rest of the family; do you want to come?"

"Never mind that," Harry shake his head impatiently, "you'll need to cancel."

Ron eyes Harry incredulously. "But, Harry. It's my mum's cooking. And I've been looking forward to this for weeks. I don't get to see Bill, Charlie, George, or Percy very often."

"I have a lead. And an informant in Bristol who might be able to lead me to Bulstrom," Harry replies, "but, I need a second, just in case things get hairy."

"Bad pun, mate," Ron says, smirking.

Harry gives him a confused look, "What?"

"Never mind," the redhead responds, thinking hard for a moment.

"Alright, you lazyarse," Harry sighs, "I'll buy you a pint, afterwards."

That seems to make up Ron's mind for him. "Alright. I'll do this, but only because you're my best mate. Making me miss me mum's food, though, _that_ ought to be a capital offense."

Harry chuckles. "Thanks."

"Don't thank me," Ron says cheekily, "I'm counting on you to explain this to my mother and Hermione."

* * *

_6:58 P.M.  
Basilisk Fang Tavern, Wizarding District, Bristol, UK_

"This is, erm... a nice place," Ron remarks, scrunching his face, no doubt put off by the drug dealers and hookers outside, "You come here often?"

Harry catches his friend giving him a _look_. "Not often, no. And when I do, it's just for information. Ginny and I didn't break up because I was shagging corner women." Ron grins lightly, following Harry through the crowd to the back door where the bouncer awaits them.

"Dead gods will not save you." Harry says. The bouncer steps aside and the door opens for both Harry and Ron.

They step inside to the same waiting room Harry found himself in less than twenty-four hours earlier. Footsteps immediately clack on the ground, coming from somewhere behind the doorway with the bead curtain.

"Harry?" Helene's unmistakable voice calls out, "I've got some exciting information for you-" she steps out, wearing rather form-fitting battle robes, and does a double-take at the sight of Ron, "-well, well, if it isn't the famous Ronald Weasley! Harry's told me quite a bit about you."

Ron turns to Harry, who shakes his head exasperatedly and says 'that's not true'.

"Who is she?" Ron asks, and Harry can tell the redhead is trying very hard not to gawp at the beautiful witch before them.

"Helene de Beauvoir," she says, stalking up to Ron and extending out a dainty hand to the man. "Harry's information broker."

"You two are... friends?"

"No," Harry says. Ron eyes him disbelievingly, possibly because Helene said 'Yes' simultaneously with his his 'No', but Harry shakes his head. "As Helene said: she brokers information. I happen to know her, and her penchant for garnering information she has no business knowing, so I come to her for help from time-to-time."

"Such as tonight," Helene smiles toothily.

But Harry is no mood for smiles. "How did you get there?" He asks simply.

"Oh, it's not that difficult, Harry," Helene says, never breaking the smile, "especially when you've got as many resources as I do."

"Why didn't you call it in?"

Helene snorts. "Really? After the dubious circumstances under which we first met, do you really think Superintendent _Granath_-" the auburn-haired witch spits out the name like a curse, "-would take kindly to me calling in two murders and a kidnapping?"

Harry remains silent, mulling over the woman's words.

"So, Ron," she says, turning to the redhead, "how _is_ Harry at work?"

"Er... um, okay? I guess?" Ron starts, obviously flustered. "To be honest, I feel like he's disappointed with me all the time."

"Really, does he do that thing to you as well?"

Ron looks confused. "Erm... what thing?"

"You know, he stares at you from the top of glasses like you've done something wrong, and gives you that look that says, even though he's _younger_ than you-" she pauses and smacks her jaws, as if getting ready to impersonate the raven-haired wizard: "'I'm the father you never had, and I'm very disappointed in you'." Helene says conversationally, at which Ron guffaws and Harry shakes his head in exasperation.

"Are we going, or what?" Harry growls.

"Careful now; I don't appreciate that tone very much," Helene chides.

"Wait... where're we going?" Ron asks.

The auburn-haired witch gives Harry a strange look, "You didn't tell him why he came here?"

"Well... uh, sort of. Ron, we're going to an old Pureblood Iron Foundry about 25 kilometers Northwest of Bristol," Harry explains, "If there's... erm... _trouble_ there, I could use some backup."

"Well the lady looks like she's ready to fight trolls," Ron says, huffing, "I could be eating some of mum's steak-and-kidney pie!"

Harry arches an eyebrow. "Who? Helene? She's useless in a fight."

"You bastard," Helene replies with an ironical smile.

"Well, it's the truth. You're not even using your own wand, are you?" Harry counters, remembering how it was conveniently stolen by the perpetrator of the murders of Helene's husband and children. Rumor had it, however, that she chucked it to keep from being suspected in said murders, "And you're about as good at wandless magic as Hitler was at invading Russia."

"Odd analogy, but I suppose it's fair," the auburn-haired metamorphmagus sighs, "the actual practical application is a flaw, I admit, but, to be fair, it is my _only_ flaw."

Harry makes a strangled, disbelieving noise, and Helene shoots him a frigid glare:

"Besides, I have a replacement wand," she says, holding up her right wrist, revealing a wand holster, holding a wand made of some sort of light wood, "it's nowhere near as good, but I can still hold my own in a fight."

"Yeah, maybe against a first year," Harry scoffs.

The information broker's eyes narrow, "You would do well not to underestimate me, Harry. I'd never make it in this business of mine if I couldn't keep myself safe." She indicates another holster on her hip, no doubt containing one of Helene's much-lauded charmed handguns

"Well, I'm sure, but a blasted gun won't do you much good-"

"-Hush, Harry, you think too much," she places a finger to his lips and beckons Ron come over, which the redhead reluctantly does. Helene moves her hands to grasp both of theirs, and with a deep breath, and that squeezed-through-a-tube that Harry has only gotten marginally more used to over the years, they disappear with a slight pop.

* * *

_7:15 P.M.  
Fahranar, Portishead, UK_

"Bloody hell," Ron mutters, rubbing his forehead in amazement, "how does _no one_ know about this place?"

Harry agrees. In front of them, off the coast is a large and abandoned wizarding facility. And by all looks of it, it is a iron foundry meant to produce the metal _en masse_. Harry eyes the large, medieval building, with its flaring buttresses and gaunt and grim gargoyles wrapped in their wings at the tops. It is shaped like a castle, four towers, shaped in Staunton style accentuate the corners of the building like four enlarged chess pieces. It truly is a sight to behold.

"Not many people know about it," Harry nearly misses Helene's explanation, "It hasn't seen much use since the end of the War of the Roses, nearly 550 years ago. Besides, you wouldn't want the secret to get out. Apparently this was one of the few places they were able to make Eversteel, the steel that never breaks, out of iron forged here. You can see why the people who know about it would try to keep it a secret."

Ron sends the auburn-haired woman a questioning glance. "Then how do you know about it?"

"Because I'm well-informed, unlike the rest of you lot," she remarks simply, moving along a dark, craggy path that leads to the beach. Ron shrugs at Harry and stalks off behind the eldest witch, leaving Harry behind to regret his twice-cursed life.

But, nevertheless, Harry follows.

The rocks around him are nearly coal black, and Harry briefly wonders about the seeming fetish that wizards had with overly-drab scenery, but he pushes the thought away and continues down onto a beach of white sand. He finds Ron following Helene to a rocky outcropping being pummeled by merciless waves, and rushes over to his friend:

"Wands at the ready?" Harry asks, smiling lightly.

Ron does the same. "Got your back, mate."

Helene disappears around a corner, calling back with a "Watch your step boys, this ledge is a bit on the narrow side!"

Harry and Ron climb up the outcropping and find themselves facing a ledge hanging close to a small cliff face, Harry jumps across the the gap between the outcropping and the ledge, plants himself against the wall, an action Ron repeats, and sidle there way to the corner the elder witch had passed through moments before. As they turn the corner, a long cracked piece of the ledge falls away just centimeters away from Ron's feet. He watches, in horror, as the loose, jagged bit of rock tumbles down the cliff face and into the violently swelling ocean. Ron's face turns green, which Harry makes comment upon:

"You alright?"

The redhead nods queasily. "Yeah, yeah. Just... have I ever told you how much I _hate_ heights?"

"No," Harry replies, grinning, "You always seemed fine during Quidditch."

"Well I think I'm developing a phobia." Harry lets out a barking laugh, turns, and due to his more svelt frame than Ron's, practically skips across the ledge whilst waving at the stomach-ached wizard to a landing where Helene awaits:

"Where's the ginger knob?" The witch asks.

"Oi! I heard that!" Comes a small voice over the loud, crashing waves. Both Harry and Helene chuckle. Ron finally makes it to the rocky landing and gives Harry a glare that asks why he's being made to do all this.

"Oh, cheer up! Just like old times, yeah?" Harry exclaims, clapping the redhead's back.

Ron continues to glare. "Wanker."

"No time for all this, then," Helene says, folding her arms, "the longer we spend out here, the more time Mister Bulstrom has to torture the poor muggleborn!"

Harry and Ron put an end to their banter at that, hurrying alongside the elder witch down landing, which stands down a long, pebble-strewn walkway, more doleful waves swelling up and splashing atop the stone pathway. The familiar feeling of a raw egg being cracked atop Harry's head runs over him, and he realizes Ron has put a disillusionment charm on him:

"Thanks mate," Harry says; Ron nods, turning the charm on himself.

"Watch your feet," Helene says distractedly, drying her own with a well-placed spell.

After what seems like ten minutes of walking, they come to a great stone door with iron-inlays, creating a strange relief welded into the face of the door. Helene walks up to the door, biding Harry and Ron stay behind whilst she puts an ivory hand to the center of the doorway. She mutters a few lines in what Harry thinks is Latin, but is too quick with her enunciation for a positive identification.

Once complete, the door glows a strange green color as a great clicking noise signifies the door ha been unlocked. Helene tentatively nudges the door open, careful to keep from making too much noise.

As expected, there is more stone inside, and a particularly pungent whiff of Sulfur Dioxide nearly sends Harry's head spinning. He steadies himself to walk into the giant fortress. Old cauldrons and blacksmith's anvils lay strewn across the floor, lost and forgotten to time. Broken, crumbling staircases lead to a dilapidated second floor, which had once, perhaps been another level for iron-casting, but most of the stone has fallen away down to the rubble that now lay haphazardly on the first floor, leaving a view of the large Romanesque ceiling, looking very much like the tiles below Harry's feet. The moonlight filters in through small holes in the wall, giving the entire foundry a very sanctified, holy look about it.

"Keep yourselves covered," Helene whispers, drawing her wand. Harry resists the urge to smirk, training his own wand at any shadow that may jump out at them.

Their footsteps echo, so the trio take care to keep quiet and move slowly, so as not to make any noise. The hallway does not stretch on for long, but trying to keep quiet whilst climbing over all the rubble is a long and arduous task. Coming to the end of the dark hallway, Ron whispers:

"How long has this place been abandoned, you say?"

Helene sniffs and blinks rather disdainfully, as if she has finally gotten a whiff of the chemicals in the air. "Nearly 550 years."

"Bloody hell," Ron remarks, looking at the ancient walls.

Helene moves towards the end of the hallway, where another grand door awaits opening. Helene utters another quick Latin chant and the door opens in front of her. They walk into a large antechamber which appears to be where all the iron was made. Some overlarge constructs for iron-making that Harry doesn't recognize dot the chamber, and several torches light large stone columns that seem to jut upwards towards infinity. Harry looks up overhead to see stars and the night sky winking back down at him.

He moves to a column, only to hear Ron's rushed, insistent voice:

"Harry, there!" He whispers, just loud enough for the raven-haired wizard to hear him, "Freya, that's her!" Ron points to the wall on the opposite side of the gargantuan chamber. Harry turns, and sure enough, there is the girl, badly bruised, chained with both wrists to a column and seemingly unconscious. Or possibly dead.

"Go around the columns," he whispers to his two companions.

Both Ron and Helene nod, moving forward around the columns. It takes no more than thirty seconds to get to the other side of the room, and when they do, Harry immediately checks the little girl's pulse. It's faint, but there.

Harry breathes a sigh of relief. "Alive."

"Oh, good," Ron grins, "Looks like Bulstrom must be out."

"Must be," Harry agrees.

Ron stops and stares at the sleeping brown-haired girl, "You know, she kind of looks like Hermione did at her age."

Harry turns to him, "Ron, mate. That's gross."

Ron's eyes blink uncomprehendingly, until he realizes that he's comparing an eleven year-old to the woman he's dating. "Oh, er," he splutters, "I... I, uh, I didn't mean it like that!"

Harry says nothing, only telling Helene that she should Apparate the girl out of the Foundry while Ron and Harry would await Aleister Bulstrom, but Helene vehemently disagrees with that course of action, saying that Harry and Ron wouldn't know the way out without a Pureblood who knew the incantations.

But just as Harry is about to make a second plan of action, Freya shifts slightly, opening her eyes blearily, before muttering, rather pathetically: "Ow."

"Freya?" Harry asks, "Freya Thompson?"

She blinks at Harry, perhaps too tired to defend herself. "Wha-what are you going to do to me?"

Harry shakes his head. "My name's Harry. I'm here to help you get out of here. These two are Helene-" Helene waves in a manner far too cheery for the situation, "-and this is my best mate, Ron."

"Harry? Ron?" Freya blinks, "Not Harry Potter and Ron Weasley?"

"Boy, when did I get so famous?" Ron grumbles.

"The very same," Harry nods. He is about to say something when a loud clicking noise emerges from the back of the antechamber.

"Bollocks," Ron mutters, "he's here."

"Help me out," Harry says quickly, standing. Ron immediately knows what Harry intends to do and aims his wand at the chains shackling one wrist, while Harry trains his wand on the other."Close your eyes," Harry whispers soothingly to the terrified preteen.

"_Reducto_!" Both Harry and Ron say simultaneously, blasting the manacles off the girl.

Knowing that Bulstrom must have heard that, and judging by the sudden rush of a lone pair of footsteps coming their way, Harry gingerly grabs Freya, and carries the girl to relative safety, where he sets her down in the dark. Before he leaves, however, Harry turns to Ron and simply mutters "Beijing String".

"Stay here," Harry says to the girl, setting her down.

A large man, with a big gait and big muscles stands in the center of the antechamber. "I know you're here!" He calls, running a hand through his stringy blonde hair. "Come out!"

Harry grins, the plan will work. Ron will lead Helene over to where Freya sits, grab the girl and get out of the Foundry, while Harry takes on Bulstrom. It can't be hard can it, after all, Harry _did_ best Voldemort in a duel. He steps out of the shadows provided by the large columns. Bulstrom whirls to meet him, and his lips quirk upwards into a rather ugly smile. Fortunately, he can hear the light, scampering footsteps of Ron and Helene as they pick up the muggleborn and hurry away. Aleister's eyes flick towards the shadows, and his smile, if anything, grows wider:

"_Avada Kedavra_!" Is the first spell out of the wizard's mouth and Harry involuntarily tenses. A jet of green light shoots out at Ron, Freya, and Helene; the first of which, wide-eyed, slams shut the door to the antechamber before the curse can reach the trio, and it bounces harmlessly off the large stone-and-iron door.

"Boss Potter," he whistles, turning to Harry, "to be completely honest, I hadn't expected you to come already. But I don't really care about the girl, do what you want with her."

"Well, I don't like to keep people waiting," Harry replies, shrugging.

"Then I shall do you the same courtesy," Bulstrom says, his wand appearing in his hands, seemingly out of thin air, "_Diffindo!"_

_"Protego,"_ Harry says, watching the curse bounce harmlessly off his shield. He casts two disarming spells in the killer's direction, who jumps out of the way rather spryly. The bright red curse collides into the wall and splatters into nothingness.

An acid yellow curse of unknown intention flies towards Harry, and thinking it is best to avoid the curse entirely, Harry jumps out of the way, yelling "_Confringo_!" A jet flame captures the hem of Bulstrom's robes, who docks into the relative safety of the shadows. Harry cannot let Bulstrom stay in the shadows, unseen to the emerald-eyed wizard, so he mutters "_Acervus_" and watches as the man blindly bumps his way out of the shadows, his robe still steaming.

Harry is about to fire a stunner when Bulstrom utters the countercurse and aims his wand at Harry, who, in a fit of brilliance that his godfather would no doubt be proud of, screams out "_Levicorpus_", causing the dumbfounded man to drop his wand and turn head over heels until he is hanging suspended, upside down. Before Harry can do anything, however, the man _accio_s his wand back into his hands and sends another off-balance Severing Charm, which grazes Harry's shoulder.

The sudden pain causes Harry to break concentration with his own spell and Bulstrom goes tumbling to the ground in a heap of limbs. However, he reacts quicker than Harry, getting up and sending four hexes Harry's way that he just barely has time to pull up a shield against them.

Two quick half-casted Reductor curses, lower in power, but quicker than the fully-powered spells fly towards Bulstrom, who dodges out of the way, causing the spell to break up nothing more than the stone floor. The stringy blond-haired man disappears into the shadows of the surrounding pillars, leaving Harry wary of all directions.

Harry brings up a Protego shield and silently curses his luck, as this place negates his time-perfected fighting skill of flash apparitions, which consisted of quick teleportations and leaving double images to confuse the enemy as he appeared to strike from nine different angles.

But he is not without his own tricks, casting a hearing enhancement spell over himself. Instantly, all sorts of sounds became audible in the gloaming and the already dark antechamber. He can hear the rain pelting the roof above, the waves crashing against the rocks in the distance, and, most importantly, every sound in the room.

A shift to his right, too light for human footsteps. Likely a rat.

"You shouldn't move," he taunts, smiling. It's been too long since he has had a good duel!

He has figured Bulstrom out, Harry thinks. A malignant sociopath, a practical black hole, consuming without remorse and with reckless abandon. Harry almost smiles. People such as him are characterized by a few things, a need to collect souvenirs from their victims, and the inability to stay calm once taunted.

And Bulstrom, Harry _knows_, will eventually make his mistake.

"Go ahead, Aleister," Harry mocks, "I've got cells to burn."

A sudden shift and a strange pink spell flies at Harry, who simply raises his Protego to block it and sends back a powerful blasting curse that leaves a dent in the stone of one of the pillars.

"You'll destroy this place with all those spells, you know?" Bulstrom questions from all directions. Harry grits his teeth; the killer had charmed his voice to surround Harry's hearing, rendering him unable to discern the man's position.

He'll have to take the offensive, then.

Harry himself darts into the relative safety of the shadows of the pillars, dodging a few hexes on the way there, and quickly disillusions himself and casts a silencing charm upon his feet. If he wouldn't be able to play double-image tricks on Bulstrom, he'd simply become _invisible_.

So he sneaks around in the dark, eyes slowly becoming accustomed to the inky blackness surrounding himself, and somewhere in the large antechamber, Bulstrom. For a long time, Harry feels as if he is getting nowhere, and the silence is unnerving. And then, quite suddenly, he finds himself face-to-face with the dark wizard by bumping into him. Harry curses his inattentiveness as Bulstrom takes a wild swing at him. It is far too close-quarters for wand combat, so Harry sticks muggle fighting methods he had learned as part of the Auror training course, using his fists and feet rather than his magic.

Fortunately, Harry has the upper-hand, having been disillusioned, and lands a rather satisfying haymaker on Bulstrom's chin, sending him backwards. Harry does not stop there, however, and rushes up to the backpedaling wizard and tackles him to the ground, trying to reach for his wand while the bigger man tries to shrug Harry off, eventually doing so by throwing Harry off.

Harry lands on the ground with a painful thud, his back making a sickening crack on the ground, but he quickly recovers, standing up alongside Bulstrom. His disillusionment charm has faded, and both men stare each other down.

There is a sudden flash of color as both men move. Reds, yellows, blues and purples fly in a rainbow of destructive power, both Harry and Bulstrom half-casting to gain the upper hand.

The killer silently lifts a boulder and tosses it Harry's way, until the DCI banishes it behind Bulstrom, who is tripped by the large stone, landing painfully on his back. With a sense of spryness that should not be possible from a man of Bulstrom's stature, he sends a stinging hex towards Harry that catches the DCI unawares and slows Harry down for just a second.

Rather than cut his losses, Bulstrom rushes Harry, sending wild punches at the Auror's face, who backed up into a wall, blocks with a rope-a-dope styled defense. When Bulstrom tries one last punch, Harry makes his move, grabbing the man's wrist, manually disarming him, and flipping him over. Bulstrom lands on the ground with a loud 'thump' and groans, before kicking his legs up, catching Harry in the chin, causing the DCI to stumble backwards. The killer's hand-to-hand combat was lacking, indeed, but he was still a wizard, Harry knew, and could rely on magic when all else failed.

Bulstrom rushed Harry again, only to be met with a foot to the chest as he fell backwards, using the small time window to send another stinging hex at Harry. He is up almost as immediately as he had fell, and the next thing Harry sees is a jet of green light whizzing towards him. It takes all his fleibility and more than a little luck to dive out of the way and into the relative safety of the pillars. Harry stays down in the shadows, but almost immediately hears scuffling that sounds like a man running.

Bulstrom scampers past Harry to the doorway, grinning. "Be a little slow, just once, Potter," he cries jubilantly, uttering something in Latin as Harry gives chase. He is only able to slip through the door before it would shut and lock the Halfblood inside.

Once outside the antechamber, Harry finds four playful jinxes sent his way that he deals with easily. Climbing up the rubble, however, not so. A volley of curses and charms fly around the long hallways, and before long, they're at the second door. Harry instinctively knows what the wizard is planning to do and wills his legs to catch up to the man as they burst through the doorway and out onto the wet walkway leading back to Portishead.

Bulstrom already appears to be getting ready for Apparition, so with one last lunge, and a look around to make sure Ron, Helene, and Freya are gone, Harry grabs a hold of Aleister, who gives him a look of utter shock as the familiar feeling of being squeezed through a tube much to small for Harry envelops him and the enemies disappear into the night with a soft, but audible pop, off to places unknown.

* * *

**A/N**: Helene will not take Hermione's place as the third member of the trio, if you're wondering. Hermione will come to play a much larger role a few chapters from now, when the bigger plotline takes shape. It's long, I know. Hopefully, however, I've whet the appetite! Also, forgive any errors, I'm still in the process of looking for a beta, so my proofreading might not be as sufficient as I hope.

Chapter Notes:

The King of Limbs- The name of a smashing Radiohead Album and a 1000 year-old tree in Savernake Forest. While it may be an RH reference (the first of many, I'm afraid), the tree has more to do with the fic than the album, which would be anachronistic by about eight years if so.

The Green Light- Pretty much speaks for itself. 'Tis a bit of double entendre, though.

Tout- More American slang than English for a person who is a spokesperson for the drug trade. As you might have noticed, shows like _The Wire_ and _Luther_ have affected the fic's process, so the drug trade will have importance.

Harry and Hermione's telephone conversation is meant to be a role-reversal, with Harry playing the 'stickler for rules' Hermione usually does while she plays Harry's usual role in the trio.

Don't think Agilian is going to disappear. Note its _Avada Kedavra_ parallelism, as well.

Old Irish Metre- Sort of a quasi-play on 'New Scotland Yard', where the London Police operate from. Auror rankings follow that of English Police rankings. Police-Constable, Detective-Sergeant, Detective-Inspector, Detective-Chief Inspector, Detective-Superintendent, and Chief Superintendent. Harry is a DCI (Chief Inspector). Ron is a DS (sergeant) because he worked with George at WWW while Harry joined up with the Aurors almost immediately. Malfoy is a DI (Inspector).

The growing friendship between Draco and Harry is an important one, and will eventually put Harry in conflict with other characters. Relax! No slash.

Pathologian- My idiotic wizard version of a pathologist/coroner.

Ginger Ale sloshing- A reference to the Pilot of _The Sopranos_, where Tony describes how he felt prior to blacking out to Dr. Melfi.

Fat Man: The A-bomb detonated in Nagasaki, Japan during WWII.

Fiends: American slang for drug addicts. Usually a diminutive of 'Dope-fiend'.

Helene de Beauvoir- She would be the equivalent of a Confidential Informant to the Police if this were anything but a HP Fic. And yes, Granath is not exaggerating about her.

Helene tells Harry that he's been using 'his powers'; that is important, and will come up again in two chapters.

_Discerpa_- A particularly violent curse that comes from the Latin 'Discerpo', or to dismember. Helene uses this to chop up her children, according to Granath.

Ginny's Article. I wouldn't have put it in there if there wasn't something to be gleaned from it. She's also a journalist in this fic rather than a Quidditch player for reasons that will become apparent in Part 3.

Harry-Hairy- Bad pun

"I'm the father you never had..."- Daniels says something along very similar lines about Freamon in _The Wire_.

"Beijing String"- Code word for the plan where Ron and Helene picked up Freya. Harry and Ron have been partners for a year and a half now, they'd have a few codenamed plans.

I hadn't wanted to make Helene too much a Mary Sue, so I severely limited her use on the Battlefield, to the point where she can only defend herself. That bouncer of hers will come in handy later.

NEXT CHAPTER: Harry ends up facing down Bulstrom again, but not after there is some havoc to wreak for the child-killer.

Thanks again for reading, and I do so love reviews from you all. Drop me one, pretty please?  
Geist.


	2. The Circus

Truthfully, the idea of a disclaimer on a fanfiction site is self-defeating. If I were J.K. Rowling (whom I clearly am not), why would I post this on a fanfiction site? I could just have my publisher put it out there and have him do a little Irish jig for me as well, because, let's be honest, I'd be making him a lot of money and I just _adore_ Irish jigs.

Summary: Dropped in Liverpool, Harry begins to understand Aleister's purpose and meets new allies. As this is the last chapter of Part I, this is the last Present-tense chapter. Part two onwards will be past tense.

* * *

The King of Limbs

"You don't know it, but you're playing."  
- Aleister Bulstrom

Part 1  
II: The Circus

* * *

_August 27, 2002 8:03 PM_  
_Liverpool, UK_

He understands that the job is fraught with dangers. And that he will often be in life-threatening situations; that does not frighten him. In fact, it lifts his spirits. Apparition is thought untraceable, and Harry's last known location must be miles away from where he stands now, on a beach, wand trained at Bulstrom. But, rather than fear, this brings excitement. Harry is alone, utterly alone. Backup can't come because Ron doesn't know where he's gone. But the chase is over nearly as quickly as it begun.

Harry was simply faster, regaining his bearings quicker than Bulstrom and using a quick _Expelliarmus_ to relieve him of his wand.

The other man, sitting in the sand, looks over the mournful waves crashing against the shore. "This is a pretty place."

Harry snorts, not expecting the man to have any conception of beauty. "Yeah, it is," he finally says, after a long period of hesitation. He looks up at the gray sky, rapidly turning to the inky black it will be in a few hours.

"You shouldn't have followed me."

"Probably not, but I did. And, so, here we are," Harry replies, pointing from Bulstrom to himself.

But the elder man shakes his head, stringy blond hair swinging left and right with the movement. Harry admits, he must look confused, and Bulstrom notices. The dirty man's lips curve upwards into a farce of a smile:

"Liverpool is not a place for someone like you. Not anymore, at least."

So that's where they are? Liverpool. Since when did Liverpool become dangerous for him? Harry knows it's a haunt for retired MI6 agents, but not Dark Wizards. They usually stick to larger cities, so as to make it easier to blend in with the population. And, being someone perpetually preoccupied with intelligence, Harry quirks an eyebrow in interest:

"And why would that be?"

That smile never leaves Bulstrom's face as he speaks. "And why would I tell some Mudblood-loving cunt like you?"

"Because," Harry smirks, raising his wand "_Petrificus totalis_" the dark wizard's body seizes up and locks together, allowing Harry to grab him by the scruff of his robes and drag him to the waters. Harry curses not having any anti-magic manacles on him, as Ron was supposed to do the arrest, but this will have to do for now.

He sets Bulstrom on his knees just in front of the shoreline, and kicks the man in the back so he falls over into the frigid ocean waters. Harry lets the man struggle in the water for a moment before letting him up and reapplying the charm.

"If you don't tell me," Harry says with a ghost of a smile, "I can just let you drown."

"You know, I could easily break this juvenile charm," Bulstrom growls, "but, think about it, the great Harry Potter torturing a suspect who hasn't even gotten a trial! How the mighty have fallen!"

Harry nods. "But I think they'll be fine with it when they find out you've been butchering little Muggleborn girls."

"Not everyone. Not this city."

"Well I suppose it's a good thing they don't know we've arrived yet," Harry replies lightly, kicking the wizard into the water again.

* * *

_8:06 PM_  
_St. Mungo's Hosptial, London, UK_

"We've got to get the girl to a room quickly," Helene says, rather frantic for a normally imperturbable woman. "She's clearly been drugged. And some of these wounds we look bad."

Ron grunts. "I'm moving as fast as I can!"

The two burst into the Emergency Sector of St. Mungo's Hospital, where two Healers look from the two redheads and the brunette child who has obviously been through a trying eighteen hours, before rushing towards the two.

"Name?" One of them asks.

"Freya Thompson, a student going to Hogwarts this year," Ron immediately replies, "Multiple knife wounds, possible sexual abuse. Page Healer Granger, as well."

The girl is levitated onto a stretcher and carried away by the healers while Helene takes a seat.

"I have to go get Harry some backup," Ron says to Helene, "Can you tell Healer Granger, she's the brown-haired one, that I need to talk to her about Harry?"

Helene looks appalled. "I can't stay here and talk to some person I don't know; I have to get back to my shop!"

"It will only be a few minutes," Ron tries to placate the woman, rushing out the door before Helene can say no. The aging witch sits down and sighs until she hears a soft voice above her:

"Are you the mother?" She asks. Helene looks up to see a pretty honey-haired witch looking back down at her, and for a moment she wonders why Harry was so attracted to The Ginger when Healer Granger was around. Even as a woman, Helene can tell the woman in front of her is quite attractive, even more so, in her humble opinion, than the 'stunning' (as the Daily Prophet put it) Ginny Weasley.

"Uh, no, no," Helene shakes her head, "I'm an..." she pauses and waves her wand, reciting "_Muffliato_" and turns back to the woman, "... I'm an informant of Harry Potter's. Ronald Weasley, he, and I found that little girl Freya Thompson at an abandoned Iron Foundry near Portishead."

Suddenly, Hlr. Granger's eyes lace with worry. "Freya Thompson? Are they alright? Harry? Ron?"

"Ron is fine, he's just left for the OIM. He says that he'll be back with Harry."

"And Harry? Is Harry with him?"

"No," Helene breathes, "He's very likely at the Foundry with the killer."

"You left him there?" The Muggleborn breathes furiously.

Helene, for some reason, feels compelled to defend herself. "Well, it wasn't if I had the choice! I was only there because I knew how to get them in. Everything else was Harry and Ron's doing. Seemed more like Harry wanted Ron out of the way, if you'd ask me."

"That stupid man!" Hlr. Granger exclaims, eyes shining with worry, taking a seat next to Helene. "Sometimes I wonder..."

Helene quirks an eyebrow. "Wonder what?" She asks when it becomes apparent that the Healer will not finish. Hlr. Granger does not say anything, perhaps because she does not trust Helene enough, and continues to stare unblinkingly at the wall, as if in deep thought.

The door bursts open, and Ron rushes through, making a beeline for Helene and Hlr. Granger. "Hermione!" He calls out, moving towards the brunette and kissing her cheek. Hermione shies away, telling him not to do that while they're at her workplace. The two talk of something that Helene doesn't pay much attention to before Ron turns to the auburn-haired witch, "We need you to help us get into Fahranar again."

It is only then that Helene realizes the predicament she has gotten herself into.

* * *

_8:15 PM_  
_Fahranar, Portishead, UK_

"That bloody idiot," Granath mutters to himself, "we've got Muggleborns disappearing and now the bloody Boy-Who-Lived is gone, too?" Ron, chastised, can only nod. "And Helene de Beauvoir? I thought I told Harry to be _careful_ around her, and now he goes running off with her to capture child-killers?"

"With all due respect, sir-" Ron begins, watching Helene, who sits on a fallen boulder rather glumly, but Granath cuts him off:

"I don't need explanations. I need to find out where Potter ended up. Put out an alert. Maybe someone, somewhere will stumble across them." A wave rises up and crashes against a jagged rock, spraying Ron and the Superintendent lightly and the Weasley turns away immediately afterwards, apparating into the night.

Granath turns back to the foundry, stroking his beard thoughtfully.

* * *

_8:20 PM_  
_Liverpool, UK_

"So, are you ready to talk, yet?" Harry asks. Bulstrom spits some of the seawater at him in response.

Harry sighs, wiping the water off his arms, "Thank you," he drawls, "I guess we'll have to go back to the OIM, then." He takes hold of the arm of a suddenly grinning Bulstrom and tries to Apparate, only to feel something blocking him from leaving.

"Anti-apparition wards?" Harry muses, "Over a beach?" Something obviously isn't right. His fears are realized when he detects two magical signatures fast approaching behind him. Quick as a whip, Harry whirls around and fires a Stunner at the two signatures approaching.

One of them falls down quicker than a log. Harry notes the one he hit was a none-too-small man who now lay face-down in the sand. A woman, perhaps his partner, completely ignores her fallen comrade as she stalks over to Harry. She is a rather plain-faced woman, but the sneer on her lips, the raven-black hair, and the violent fire in her dark brown eyes make this woman look like a Succubi. She wears strange robes, consisting of a white regimental coat (like the ones that Muggles war during the American Revolutionary War, Harry mentally adds) with a hood affixed, though she does not wear it, some sort of a button-down shirt underneath, heavily reinforced trousers and boots. She looks very much like a soldier, Harry thinks. Her sneer, once she sees Harry, morphs into a gorgeous smile:

"Wotcher, Auror Potter," she greets simply, holding up her wand at Harry. "I'm going to have to ask you to step away from Aleister over there."

"And if I choose not to?" Harry questions, his wand trained on her as well.

The woman's grin, if anything, grows wider: "I'd kill you," She says, "but I don't want to kill you. It would be unfortunate, considering we're on the same side."

"Are we, now?" Harry asks.

"If by on the same side, we both want to kill that greasy-haired wanker behind you, then yes, we're on the same side."

Harry shrugs. "Well, that's rather unfortunate, because I'm not planning on killing him today."

"Still," the unidentified witch says, "You solve your problem if you give him to me. You can then go back home, get some sleep, and come in tomorrow telling them you failed to capture Bulstrom, but then find that someone else did through the Daily Prophet."

"Or," Harry stops, stroking his chin thoughtfully, "I can hex you to oblivion and get out of here."

"As long as you're in Liverpool, you're not getting reprieve. And we'll never let you get out of the city."

"We?" Harry questions sarcastically.

"Never you mind," the witch replies, "now hand the man over."

Harry turns to look at Bulstrom, whose features have morphed into something along the lines of fear. "I'd take Petre over them any day," he says fearfully, apparently hoping to appeal to Harry's sense of mercy.

"As much as knowing how he feels makes me want to hand him over, I'm still going to have to say no," Harry shrugs, turning back to the woman. She grimaces in response:

"And is there a reason why you're being so stubborn, Harry Potter?"

Harry looks up, as if trying to remember something. "No, not really. I just think that since I caught him, I get to turn him in."

"So, this is for what, your ego?" The witch asks disbelievingly.

"I'm _very_ egotistical," Harry responds, nodding vigorously.

The woman shakes her head. "Well, then, I guess I'll have to kill you."

"By your leave," Harry replies lightly.

"_Confringo!_" She yells, as a blast of fire comes Harry's way. In a fit of quick thinking, and remembering Dumbledore's fight with Voldemort at the Ministry during Harry's fifth year, he manipulates some of the seawater into a veritable shield of water around Bulstrom and himself. When through with that, he uses a levitating spell on one of the jagged rocks at the end of the beach, sending it flying at the attacking witch.

Her eyes widen to see a large boulder flung at her from behind the wall of water, and she is barely able to use a blasting spell to keep herself from being skewered.

Come on, Harry, the young man thinks, make deductions! Why is there a woman here wanting a serial killer, what could she possibly need. Stall her. Stall her.

"Interesting," Harry starts, surveying the woman's face, "_Confringo _is not a particularly lethal spell. Why would you use it if you intend to kill?" No fine jewelry, and the robes she wears are practically tatters. This is not a very rich witch, Harry assumes, nor a particularly feminine one, given the way she binds herself and styles her hair in a sloppy ponytail.

"Why do you care?" She spits.

Easy to anger, too. Despite that she seemed to have kept her calm prior to the first spell, but it appears a fight brings out the worst in her. Furthermore, she's reckless. Her stunned partner is still laying in the ground, and she's taking an Auror one-on-one.

"No reason," Harry replies, eyes trailing down to her left hand. Married, but the husband is either dead or divorced, due to the band-shaped discoloration on her left ring finger. "Excuse me," He turns his wand and sends a stunner at Bulstrom as well, so he doesn't make an attempt to escape, "Where were we, now?"

"Here! _Waddiwasi_!" The blasted rocks rise and launch themselves at Harry, who brings up a shield charm.

Harry does not need to waste time with this woman, other than to find out who she is working for. Of course, he could always just _Rennervate_ his violent companion and find out just exactly who it is that wants him dead. And why. Using more elemental manipulation, Harry is able to kick up a sandstorm, temporarily blinding the woman as he grabs the unconscious man and starts running.

He is not entirely sure where he is going, and a Four-Point Spell wouldn't do him any wonders, so Harry runs. Gifted with having at least eight inches in height on the woman, he is easily able to outrun her, but she is also more agile, and the idiot of a man Harry has to carry does the Wizard-Who-Won no favors.

A streak of purple light passes by him, nearly connecting with Bulstrom on his shoulder, but Harry is able to duck out of the way at the last second and send a Bone-Breaking Jinx at the pursuer, who grimaces as the jinx strikes her arm and snaps her ulna on the spot.

He continues to run, jumping over stones and avoiding obstacles, and once even running straight through dry wall at a construction site. Bounding into the complex of Iron and steel, Harry sets numerous traps including the length of the copper wiring, and freezing the wet parts of the floor, no doubt from a water leak above.

"_Serikos_!" he mutters at a doorway he passes, encasing the hole in between with invisible spider's silk, meant to keep her from proceeding any further. In a breakneck run, he passes through a construction project, closed for the night, and breaks out the other end into Liverpudlian traffic. A quick dsillusionment charm on both Harry and Bulstrom makes them look like two walking men to everyone else.

He checks behind him to see if the woman comes out, which she does, bursting out the same door he did, covered in what looks like spider webs, into the nighttime traffic and gets trapped in a crowd of pedestrians. She looks around for a moment, stamps her foot, and turns back to the construction site as Harry breathes easy. He gets up and holds Bulstrom once more, looking for a secluded and abandoned place to stay for the night.

Harry doesn't know how far he walks, and every time he tries to Apparate, he ends up on his arse. So, the raven-haired wizard gets up and moves on, crossing mile after mile until the city center is gone and he finds himself staring down an old barn that appears to have been in disuse for the last twenty years. He drags Bulstrom inside after making sure no one lives nearby and lays the man down on a mat of straw.

An idea pops into his head. If he can't get out of Liverpool, there might be a way to get others to help him out. He pulls out his mobile phone, hoping for a signal, but curses himself as he finds none. He'll have to go further away from the secluded barn in the pine forest to be able to make a call to Hermione, the only friend he has that uses a mobile.

But, for now, he'd best question Bulstrom while no one is looking for them

"_Rennervate_," he says, but quickly adds an _Incarcerous_ so Bulstrom wakes wrapped and bound in ropes.

"Is this necessary?" He asks angrily.

Harry smiles lightly, "Quite necessary, I assure you. Now, who was that woman and why was she after you?"

Bulstrom settles down for a moment, "I don't think you want to know."

Harry trains his wand on Bulstrom in response. "I think I do."

"The fact that I know whom they are is why they want to kill me."

"Ooh, scary," Harry drawls, "the woman they sent after us was rather pitiful."

"Don't underestimate her, Potter," Bulstrom begins, "that woman could kill you in a second if she really wanted to. She's just trying to get you out of the way to get me."

"And why does she want you?"

"Because I seek to destroy," the elder man replies cryptically.

"Stop with the riddles, just tell me."

He looks over, quite seriously. "I don't particularly care for you, so I guess it won't harm to tell you. She is part of The Circus."

"The Circus?" Harry's eyes narrow, "You're speaking nonsense again."

"Let's just say they're no friends of the Aurors," Bulstrom drawls.

"But they want to kill you. Why?"

Bulstrom smirks. "Because," he says, "I am no friend of theirs. My cause is not theirs."

"Your cause," there is a hard-edged insistence to Harry's voice that causes even the seasoned serial murderer to recoil:

"Well, certainly. I have a cause. I'm not so petty as to do things just because I _want_ to. And I certainly don't serve myself. How terribly misguided that would be!"

"Like what?"

"A higher order of justice."

"Murdering Muggleborns?" Harry snorts, disbelieving. Bulstrom shoots Harry a glare:

"Shut up. There are many reasons as to why I did what I did, and for the sheer enjoyment of it is definitely one of the lowest rungs on that ladder." He pauses. "Well, I'm in a shite position: prison with you or death with Stella-"

"Stella?" Harry asks, "That's her name?"

"Yes, a mid-ranker in The Circus. Dunno what she does or why, but she's been after me for years." Bulstrom starts, "Stella Gerrard. Crazy bint, that one. But, as I was saying, I'm not the greatest position right now, it seems, so I suppose it can't hurt to tell you. You have quite an admirer, Harry James Potter."

"Well, I'm flattered," Harry says coquettishly, before returning to a more serious demeanor, "Can you tell me who the Cyrano is that I may thank them for their interest?" Bulstrom breaks out into light chuckles, a raspy, half-dead sound:

"Unfortunately, I'm bound not to tell you. Your admirer is a very secretive person. And even if you did know the name, I don't think you'd like to meet this person. After all, five children are dead and a sixth is recovering because of said person's actions."

"Said person's? So, you're _not_ to blame for all of this. It was actually someone who forced you to do it."

"No, no, no, I gladly did it!" Bulstrom admits, grinning wildly, "But the purpose and manner in which it happened are far different than you think."

Harry waits for him to continue, but when it appears that the Dark Wizard will not go on, Harry punches him in the stomach. "No, no, don't stop on my account!" He says sardonically, loosening Bulstrom's tongue once more.

"Ouch," he mutters, which would have been alright in Harry's mind if the man wasn't cackling the way he is. After a few moments, however, he regains his ability to speak: "Have you ever played chess, Harry?"

"Quite a few times," Harry replies, "was never much good at it up until a few years ago."

"Ah, good, then. Because I'll explain it to you in the easiest, most clichéd way possibly. You should take a page from the game. There are all these people around you, aren't there? All those Ministry Officials and your friends and your partner... et cetera. All of you are pieces, being moved back and forth on a chessboard. And you're playing this game, believe me. You don't know it, but you're playing. You and I? Right now, we're just pawns."

Playing Devil's Advocate to an obviously childish analogy, Harry responds: "But pawns can become queens."

"And how many do? You just sacrifice them. Their friends, families, reputations, _lives_... you can even knock down and rebuild their belief system until everyone looks the same. Small little pawn pieces. That's what they call order. The Ministry, Hogwarts, every little establishment of the wizarding world wants to make you a pawn."

"Your point?"

"Higher justice. I want to show the world that you can step up and defy the great Ministry, that you don't have to be a pawn-" he pauses, looking up reverently. Harry has to keep himself from groaning, realizing that he is stuck with an obviously crazy person until he can get out of Liverpool.

"Your pro-muggle and pro-muggleborn legislation-" Bulstrom spits, "-all garbage. And me? An anti-Muggle sadist? No, there are far better reasons to kill someone than their magical background."

"And that is?"

"Make the population _fear_." Bulstrom's grin turns devious, "if you teach someone to fear, you are the father of knowledge. Every single bit of learning comes through fear. All meaning comes from fear. A happy population is a nation of sheep. If tragedies happen every now and then, if people do not forget the myths that made them dread bedtime as children, the population knows to learn. For its own survival. And your peace-loving edicts on how one can or can't treat a child makes the entire country blind; turns them to pawns; makes them play the game."

"Myths. You're perpetrating myths," Harry says, voice crackling with disbelief.

Bulstrom shrugs. "It works, doesn't it? The entire country's listening, now."

"Not for long, no."

"And if I'm not here, _he_ still is."

"Who?" Harry questions.

Bulstrom remains silent. Harry sighs and sits down in another old bale of hay, keeping his wand trained on the bound wizard and rubbing his eyes. What he wouldn't give for a cigarette right now! Or maybe some tea. Yes, that would do nicely. Harry has been on too many cases to fall asleep while toting a prisoner around, so he keeps a blank and studious watch of the other wizard.

After a long while, perhaps two hours by Harry's watch, Bulstrom speaks again.

"What was that?" Harry asks, "I couldn't hear you."

"Agilian, is what I said," he replies.

Harry furrows his brows. "The drug? What about it?"

There is a slight creak at the barn door. Aleister's eyes widen as Harry whirls to face any intruder just as the barn door, directly behind him, bursts of its hinges and Harry is forced to use a Reductor to keep himself and Bulstrom from being squished.

Stepping into the wreckage the desolate barn has become is the woman whom had so thoroughly wanted to kill Bulstrom carrying a wand in her right hand and something else that Harry can't quite identify in the darkness settled in her left hand.

"Stella, I presume," Harry says charmingly, "Stella of 'The Circus'?"

She wheels around to Bulstrom, sending him a furious glare. She stops a moment before raising her arm with the unidentified object. Harry realizes then that it is a Muggle pistol, and he brings his wand up to cast a shield charm, but Stella is quicker, muttering something that ends up shooting out something purple that blocks Harry's best attempt at a _Protego_. He can only watch in horror as Bulstrom shakes and struggles against his bindings, which Harry tries, in vain, to loosen as the deranged woman raises the large handgun to his head and fires. His head snaps backwards to an angle Harry thought previously unimaginable, blood spurts out, creating a fine mist across the bales of hay as the now limp Aleister Bulstrom remains bound to the ropes of Harry's _incarcerous_ spell blood dripping town his partially blasted off head. The strange purple aura that prevented Harry from helping the murderer now dissipates as Stella turns to face Harry.

"Looks like you've fixed the arm," Harry quips, pointing to her now quite usable arm.

The woman ignores Harry's observation. "Yes, my name is Stella Gerrard, of 'The Circus', as you call it," she affirms, training the same gun that dropped Bulstrom on Harry, "Call me Gerrard, though."

"Gerrard, then," Harry amends.

"I think you'd like to come with me. Especially if you've attracted the interest of this man's master."

"Who is he?"

Ms. Gerrard shakes her head. "I think you'd like to come with me, Mr. Potter. Much safer for you. And me." She touches Bulstrom's corpse with her wand, and a strange green marking is placed on his neck. Harry tries to inspect it, noting that it is a Rune, but he is not given enough time to study the glowing green writing on Bulstrom's body because Gerrard extends out her arm to Harry, which the DCI takes as a call for side-along apparition rather than a friendly handshake, if her grim countenance is anything to go by. Harry searches her face, and seeing no ill-intent aside from if he tries to run away from the black-haired woman, he grasps her arm, and with a sudden jerking motion that makes Harry feel like he's being pulled apart in all directions, they disappear with a pop.

And land in a strange wizarding facility. It's a large building, and rather oddly reminiscent of the OIM, in Harry's opinion, with a large atrium that appears to be made entirely out of some sort of glass.

"Goblin-glass," Gerrard says distractedly, ushering Harry along the atrium, though he longs to stay and look at the scenery, which appears to be the nighttime Liverpool traffic. "It's charmed so we can see out, but no one can see in. And it's stronger than steel."

"Oh," is all Harry can muster.

Gerrard stops at a receptionist's desk, a half-moon crescent in shape, just like the one back at the OIM, except with that strange goblin glass everywhere. A woman smiles politely at Gerrard:

"Gerrard," she intones, "shall I tell Control you're here with DCI Potter for his appointment?"

Harry's eyes nearly shoot into his hairline. It wouldn't be hard for the woman to tell whom Harry is, but for them to have set up an appointment, they'd have to have known that Harry would be coming here. Did they anticipate this? He turns to Gerrard, who keeps her face in the likeness of a blank stone, ignoring the confused wizard as she speaks:

"Yes, Exeter, please patch Control."

The other woman nods, pressing something behind the table, though Harry can't quite make out what it is that she presses. The unmistakable sound of an intercom crackling to life registers in Harry's ears. For a moment, no noise is made until the woman, whom Gerrard called Exeter, leans into a microphone at the far side of her desk and speaks:

"Control, this is Exeter, Gerrard and the DCI are here to see you."

Only the static of the intercom plays for a moment, and then a flayed, gravelly voice responds. "Bring them up."

Exeter, though Harry seriously doubts that is her _real_ name, waves Gerrard and the DCI through. Gerrard moves towards the far side of the atrium, where six glass elevators stand. Gerrard punches the 'up' button for one of them. Harry takes a look up as to how far the elevators travel, and catches the sight of interesting hanging sculpture of the globe, where hundreds of red lights pop up all around the seven continents.

"Every Magical Conflict everywhere that we know of," Gerrard explains, pushing Harry into an elevator that opens up in front of them. "Good thing to know for people like us."

"And... what kind of people are you?" Harry questions. Gerrard gives Harry a look that tells him to shut up.

So he does exactly that, facing forward, bouncing on his toes and letting a gust of air out his mouth. This week just gets stranger and stranger, he idly muses. Serial killers, abandoned pureblood iron foundries, Liverpool, and now a crazy woman who is taking Harry up to see 'Control', whomever that may be.

He hasn't had this much excitement since Voldemort!

But the excitement, Harry knows, can be a bad thing. For one, he still doesn't know what side these 'Circus'-folk are on, as Bulstrom only told him a little before getting his head all blasted off by Gerrard. Hopefully, however, seeing as the Dark Wizard didn't exactly go frolicking into the meadow and out of Harry's grasp due to these people, he can only assume that they are exemplary of the age-old saying 'The enemy of my enemy is my friend'.

But yet, more questions plague the young Auror: what was that thing about Agilian Bulstrom said before the Circus Agent came bursting through the barn door, and what does it have to do with anything?

"Stop fussing," Gerrard orders; at once, Harry stops bouncing on his toes and faces forward as a soldier would.

Finally, after a time, the elevator doors open and Harry finds himself facing the large globe sculpture, realizing he is now on the seventh floor, the highest, he believes, though he cannot be totally sure. Gerrard leads him down the walkway, a rectangular shape that hugs the walls so as not to interfere with the globe of conflicts. Harry takes a look below, the place seems mostly deserted, but there are a few people in suits running to and fro. On the particular floor he is at contains only one office down the corner, hidden behind oaken double doors.

"Get in," she barks once in front of the doors, all but shoving the DCI into the office. There awaits another man, similarly dressed to Gerrard though his hood is drawn up, who eyes the exchange amusedly.

"Control, I have DCI Potter for you."

"Thank you, Gerrard," he breathes, an American accent tempered by having lived in England for a long time, "you may go now."

The stone-faced Gerrard nods, turns heel on the DCI and 'Control', and marches out of the office, a large one that has the same glassy look, but with metal flooring and electronic lighting overhead. For a long time, Harry and the hooded man stare each other down, unmoving, unblinking, until Control speaks:

"You really are a bit of a downer, you know that?" He asks quickly.

Harry shrugs. "You'd forgive me if I'm not all smiley today; it's been a rotten one, if you ask me."

The hooded man chuckles, "Smiley. I think I like that one for you."

Smiley? For him? What is this man on about? Harry straightens, and with an arched eyebrow, waits for 'Control' to continue:

"Forgive my manners," Control says, moving round his desk so he is directly in front of Harry, "but you've attracted my interest, Harry Potter."

"Yeah, I get that a lot," Harry sighs dramatically.

"Well, just be glad I am on your side instead of Bulstrom's," Control smirks, Harry allows a small smile to grace his lips. "I've known of you for quite some time, but then again, who hasn't? Harry Potter, the Wizard-Who-Won! The Chosen One-"

"-I always hated that name."

"Of course," Control graciously admits, "But there's more to you than that, isn't there? The willingness to sacrifice? I've heard all about your exploits: from the moment your parents were murdered to when you knowingly walked to your own death in that last battle. Very intriguing. And now you're an Auror, yes?"

"Yes."

"Then you know this country's state of affairs, do you not?"

Harry nods.

"And you know that you cannot change it through legislature, am I correct?" Control questions.

"Yes, we've tried, but the Ministry is not prone to change, and it seems to get worse by day. Talks of war with Russia, or being dragged into one; an increase in violent murder; Pureblood-on-Muggleborn hate crimes; Terrorism; and the Agilian craze, that seemed to come from nowhere. All the MI6 stuff."

"Good, at least you're informed. You may be wondering whom I am and just what The Circus is... to be truthful, some would consider us a terrorist group simply because we haven't been legally implemented yet."

"Legally implemented?"

"Do you remember AEL-TA conference from last year? Where you, Ms. Granger, and Mr. Weasley came up with the idea of an International Wizarding Police based off of the Muggle 'Interpol'?"

Harry nods. Last year, in one of his very few public appearances since Voldemort's death, Harry had, with the rest of the newly-named 'Golden Trio' had put forth a charter for Serious Crimes that span Europe and the Americas, a sort of Wizarding Interpol meant to act as a true counter for the rise in terrorism since the end of the war, especially considering the Conference took place merely a month after the September Eleventh Attacks on America. The differences between the U.S.A. and Russia, however, were too strained due to the possibility of Russian interference that may have allowed the Attacks on the Twin Towers and the Pentagon to come through as planned and the resolution, along with the rest of the treaty (which would include international medical and food aid, alongside a parliamentary United Wizarding Nations meant to mediate disputes between member countries).

Of course, Harry could only claim to have come up with the bare skeleton of what would become the ATCO, or Anti-Terrorism Coalition, Hermione is the one who had really gone in depth with her studies of Interpol to make it a possibility.

"ATCO?" Harry questions, "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Ah, but it has to do with everything," Control chides, spreading his arms wide, "You are looking at the UK Branch of the ATCO, codenamed 'The Circus'. This is your, and to a lesser extent, Ms. Granger's and Mr. Weasley's brainchild."

"But... how? This would be illegal, wouldn't it?"

"Of course, it's illegal! Under British law, that is. Technically we're a terrorist group that shadow functions as the equivalent of a Paramilitary Organization. If, however, as Ms. Granger's Emergency Clause states, there is a clear and present need for us, we're already waiting on orders. Of course, right now, we take orders from the Americans headquartered in Chicago; you three certainly impressed some representative members of the MD-CIA. It's said there's even some KGB action in Petersburg to help make ATCO possible."

Harry, for lack of a better term, is floored. He moves forward towards Control, reaching out for one of the comfortable leather chairs in front of Control's crescent-shaped office desk, grasping the back and sitting down in it.

"This. The Circus? It's mine?"

Control shrugs. "Not entirely. Right now, it's mine, and it could be yours someday, if you're willing to join now. I could even place you in a Management Position."

"And if I say no?"

"Well, then I _Obliviate_ you and send you on your way, implanting false memories of your fight with Bulstrom as well."

"Oh."

That's quite the proposal. A shadow group being set up throughout all the relevant Magical World as an illegal variant of the ATCO idea he had pitched to Hermione two days after the September Eleventh Attacks, when things were much more hectic. Even as a Healer, Hermione has always been better at political science than Harry could ever dream being, and so she decided to help him. Ron put in his two cents every now and then, and by October 1st, the simply idea Harry had mentioned half-a-month earlier was practically finished. Hermione and Ron agreed with Harry, it was brilliant. Of course, with the sniping of AEL-TA, ATCO went down as well, so Harry simply resigned his fate to working in the very imperfect Auror department. But to find out now that ATCO was still being pursued by people hidden within the governmental fabric of their country, it makes Harry excited for the first time in a very long time.

Harry sighs. "It sounds fantastic, really. But I work for the government, and if they were to find out that The Circus existed, then who knows what might happen? The might charge me of treason, they may say you're trying to start a revolution. These are unstable times, and any threat to power is almost always crushed."

"Revolution is the right of the people. And to protect oneself from revolution is the right of the government. They can do what they will, but if the government itself proves too corrupt, it's only a matter of time before they fall." Control stops, "And, truthfully, did not your Godson's mother work for the government and a terrorist group at the same time?"

Right. The Order of the Phoenix. "I wouldn't consider them a terrorist group-"

"Right, neither would I. But, be that as it may, the Ministry would have considered them such," Control replies, "If there were no evidence of Voldemort's return, Alastor Moody and Nymphadora Tonks would have been prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. But, as you can see, the law is the problem; not all the politicking in the world could kickstart AEL-TA's heartbeat, not until the Yanks and the Russians are ready to kiss and make-up. It's at that point when our 'Revolution', the one that is meant to help the Muggleborns, put an end to the recent rise of terrorism, the drug-dependency of the country-"

"-Must go into the hands of the people," Harry finishes for him.

Control nods vigorously. "It's their inalienable right, _your_ inalienable right to change things when the government does not run as it should. And if it does not run as it should, we need to be informed, and able to defend ourselves."

"And ATCO is where it starts?" Harry questions.

"Yes, right here, in The Circus," Control replies, "And _La Résistance _in France, and The Lake in America, so on and so forth." He pauses, giving Harry time to mull over the information he's just been given. "Are you willing to help us?"

Harry knows that ATCO, is legalized, could be the most vital boon to a continent mired in war over the last hundred years, magical and muggle alike. But joining ATCO would place Harry at direct odds with the Government he works for, place his friends and family at risk. And he could easily be branded traitor and terrorist if ATCO is found out, and that, moreover it is _his_ brainchild. At least if he refused, Harry could claim having no association with people who had liked his ideas and turned it into a radical terrorist group, but if he joined... there could be no deniability.

But, this is a noble cause, and Harry could tell, that despite being a secretive man, Control has no intent to harm. Harry would likely already be dead if so.

And he is right, Moody and Tonks joined the Order of the Phoenix even though it was considered a terrorist group apparently seeking a coup d'etat where they could install Dumbledore as the Minister, and despite that they _worked_ for the Ministry that was so afraid of The Order. And the Ministry was wrong wasn't it?

And the Ministry today is all wrong, too. Getting into Pureblood vs. Muggleborn riots, losing ground in the Drug War, and now the corruption is starting to shine through again, despite Minister Shacklebolt's best attempts at keeping the Ministry in check. Bribes win jobs once more, blood segregation is starting to take hold again, and it won't be long before another Voldemort can find England a place to foster his ideas.

And with that, Harry looks up. "Yes. I'll take it. But I don't want a Management Position. I want to start where everyone else does."

"Good," Control smiles, "I was hoping you'd want to do this on your own. Since we aren't a legal group and can't really offer any pay, your job is the same job you work right now, as an Auror. But keep us informed, find out things within the inner-workings of the government."

Harry nods. "And what of Bulstrom? Why'd you kill him?"

"He knows about The Circus and is not member. Furthermore, he killed children in the name of a Wizard we're hunting down."

"Have you got a name?"

"None yet," Control replies, "The man's a shadow. Don't have a name, or group, just that people have been popping up all over Europe, killing people and claiming that they serve someone who 'plays the game'."

"Chess?" Harry questions.

"Yes. We're keeping an eye out for him, and try to question those working for him, but Bulstrom has proven already to be useless, and the killings were simply us being unable to track him down, which you did quite admirable for us, DCI Potter. Speaking of which, it wouldn't do us any good to be referring to you by given name, now would it, Smiley?"

"Smiley?" Harry snorts.

"What? I think it's rather good!"

"If you say so."

Control smacks the the top of his desk in good-humor. "Now, our meeting is done, but there are still things to be done about Bulstrom. He's obviously dead and you're missing. Ministry Aurors are already scouting out around Liverpool, and none can know you were here. So, I'll have to cast a spell on you to avoid any suspicions of where he might be."

"A spell?"

"It's called a charm-cocktail, meant to provide numerous symptoms that will keep Healers busy for a while. You would wake up in four days, likely, at St. Mungo's. You will have killed Aleister Bulstrom in self-defense, using a _Waddiwasi_ spell to collapse a boulder atop him, though not before he hit you with a strange spell that knocked you out immediately."

Harry nods.

"After you awake, you will return to work as per usual, and we will contact you within the week."

"Okay."

Control slightly flicks his wrist, and a wand appears in his right hand. He points it at Harry. "Are you ready?" He asks; Harry nods. Control raises his arm and whispers "_Infringo_," whilst waving his wand about as something silvery hits Harry in the chest, making him feel very drowsy before he falls away into the darkness.

* * *

**A/N: **An Anti-terrorist terrorist group? Yes, I know, irony runs high. Was it too campy, too quick, or just right? I suppose this isn't going to be the most easily accessible fic, but I hope you all stick to it! Next chapter will feature more Harry/Hermione dynamic and Harry's new assignment, which will be the start of Part Two, called MK ULTRA. And, no, it's not a reference to the Muse song, but rather what that song itself references. This is the last quickly-updating chapter, as I've only written five chapters up to this point, and I've got another fic nearing its finish. Next one should be out in a week or so.

Little Notes:

Harry's comment about chess contains a clue. To what? Well, his behavior, of course!

The Circus- I decided it was an interesting name for a 'Terrorist Group', especially considering The Circus is a slang term for the MI6, coined by John Le Caffré.

Bulstrom also mentions Agilian for a reason which will become apparent later.

Smiley- Yet another reference to Le Caffré's spy series. Many of those who haven't read the series would recognize one of the most famous novels of the series, _Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy_, was recently made into a movie starring Gary Oldman, who plays the main character, George Smiley.

ATCO- Truthfully, it's just a shorted form of _Deus Ex_'s UNATCO, or United Nations Anti-Terrorism Coalition.

MD-CIA: Magical Division- Central Intelligence Agency.

Stella Gerrard is not her real name, though it is as close as one can get.

NEXT CHAPTER: Harry wakes up at St. Mungo's, has a talk with Ron and Granath, learns things have not gone well with the Chief Superintendent, and he has a conversation with Hermione, who questions him about something rather personal. Then, Harry gets detailed.

Thanks again for reading, and be sure to leave me a review!  
Geist.

P.S. Go Thunder. And England.

EDIT: Wow, I'm an idiot. Thank you to one of our anonymous reviewers for catching my mistake with the tibia. I had meant the ulna.


	3. The Postwar Glow

The King of Limbs

_"Yeah. I find I have to be the sad clown: laughing on the outside, crying on the inside._"  
- Tony Soprano; _The Sopranos - "The Sopranos" S1E1_

* * *

Summary: Harry awakens four days after the strange ending to his Bulstrom Mission, where many people await with many questions. Lots of talking, lots of plot and character setup this chapter. This is the first chapter that is in Third-Person, past-tense. Tell me how it goes!

* * *

"Great, waging the war that never ends."  
- Harry Potter

Part 2: MKULTRA  
I: The Postwar Glow

* * *

_August 31, 2002 11:32 AM_  
_St. Mungo's, London, UK_

Hermione Granger, in her eleven years of being best friends with him, had seen Harry Potter undergo two metamorphoses, in three distinct stages of his life: The Child, The Hero, and The Wanderer. The moment she had stepped into his and Ron's compartment on the Hogwarts' Express over a decade earlier, there was something special about Harry Potter. More than his fame, or that lightning bolt-shaped scar on his forehead, but something about his mannerisms: his politeness, his optimism, his innocence had turned this eleven year-old boy into someone truly special. He was a child at heart, curious, innocent, full of naïveté, and that made him so very endearing to everyone he met.

Hermione had become too old by this time to deny it: she had fancied the childish Harry Potter. He was her knight in shining armor. The one who saved her from the troll, the one who fought Voldemort three times and won thrice by his thirteenth birthday. Perhaps it was a passing fancy, and one she herself did not recognize, but through her first four years, Hermione had eyes for no one but her absolutely platonic best friend Harry.

It was after Cedric Diggory's death that she had seen Harry change. The downtrodden, but hopeful young boy became a young man with the world placed on his shoulders. He snapped at others, he tried his best to save everyone, and took it personally when he could not save a person. Hermione supposed he entered the ethical stage of his life then: always concerned with numbers; how many did he save, how many more did he leave to rot? Hermione knew that her friend was driving himself insane, but what could she do? She tried to help him until Sirius had died, but it was by then that Harry was too far gone. The Prophecy had turned him into an unrepentant Fatalist more obsessed with his death than his life. He never spoke of it, but when he thought she or Ron were not watching, Harry would develop a strange, intense, penetrating stare at nothing, looking for all the world like a man ready to off himself.

It had scared Hermione. She got into fights with Harry during their sixth year, yes, but none of it was so petty as Potions Class, as Harry had been led to believe. It was clear that Harry was fast becoming a lunatic while Ron, even in the height of his stupidity with Lavender Brown, was far more even-keeled than the near-suicidal Potter. One of her friends was ignoring her because he was a git and she was a prat, and the other tried to mask his obvious and all-consuming depression with Quidditch and a girl named Ginny. It was enough to make _anyone_ a little bit loopy, Hermione thought.

But what grew out of that was a hero. Not the kind that made Hermione go weak in the knees like she did at the sight of Harry during their second year, but a fierce, brave, loyal man she had grown to respect and love as a brother over their nine-month Horcrux search. One who chose to die for everyone else; a Jesus Christ in disguise!

But the third metamorphosis was perhaps Harry's most terrifying. Hermione knew enough stories about Harry's childhood to know he was a rather neglected child. And he had spent his entire Hogwarts career preparing for the ultimate final battle with Voldemort. And at the end of the tunnel was money, fame, and a girl who loved him. Surely Harry must have wanted peace after all his fighting and warring with one of the world's most fearsome terrorists. At least, that's what Ron had thought.

Hermione had to stifle a reflexive smile. Ron may have been Harry's best mate, but, truthfully, she knew Harry far better than Ron could have ever hoped. Harry was not the man, though he tried to say he was, to be satisfied by a wife and kids and a large mansion and money being thrown his way. But he had thought he did, and probably didn't understand why his relationship with Ginny failed, because, ultimately, she was on the backburners over something as petty as a job. At least, that was what others thought.

But she knew better. Catching Dark Wizards was more than just a job for Harry, it was an obsession. He faced his equal in Voldemort, and won. So what is to be done after that, live a happy life with a wife and children? No. It just wasn't the life for her friend. Harry would always be searching, obsessively seeking another equal, another person like Voldemort... someone that he could fight and hate.

Truthfully, the signs began immediately after defeating Voldemort; Harry had been exceptionally mopey for a man who had just defeated his arch-nemesis and lift the curse of the prophecy off himself once and for all. But that was all expected by some, Hermione had not noticed the signs until Harry and Ginny broke up a few months earlier. She visited the reclusive Auror's then-new flat in Bristol and asked him why he didn't want Ginny when all she wanted to do was make Harry happy.

And his response? "Happiness is useless," the tosser had said.

So there arose a wanderer, someone constantly searching for his place in life, but finding none. Ron didn't see it, Ginny did not, even Harry probably did not see how lost he was, but Hermione did.

And what did she see now? Now that her best friend lay in a bed in St. Mungo's having been in a coma for four days now, all because he wanted the thrill of being the only one left to face down Aleister Bulstrom. Ron may have said it was brave, and that Harry put the girl's life before his own, but, once again, she knew Harry better than he did, and this had nothing to do with the courage and everything to do with boredom. He wouldn't be bored so long as there was someone to fight, and fight alone, right?

He _had_ changed. And it made Hermione feel even worse for her friend, who was not dead, but emotionally, mentally, had died alongside Voldemort.

But, nevertheless, he was family, and she had to take care of family. Even when they were being stubborn and stupid. So Hermione sat by his bed in Room 321 of St. Mungo's MICU, or Magical Intensive Care Unit, holding Harry's unresponsive left hand, and waited. In trying to wake Harry up, the Healers had left no stone unturned, no method untried, but the results always came back the same, Harry would have to try to come out of this coma of his on his own.

Her eyes roved over every part of him. Built like a football Defender at 6'2" and at 83 kilograms, Harry had continued his unexplained growth spurt even into his twenties, and while he was not as tall or big as Ron, who was an inch taller and built like a Rugby player, Harry possessed an unnatural strength that seemed to radiate out from his body that even when he faced down taller and bigger Ronald, the redhead seemed to shrink. It was amazing to think that this man in front of Hermione was the same boy she had made acquaintance with on Hogwarts' Express years ago.

But all he did was lie there. No movement of the eyes, apparently no REM whatsoever, signifying of a coma. But she had lunch right now, and Ron was out working, so she stayed with her other friend and read a book and held his hand while he slumbered.

But, a quarter until noon, Hermione felt a sudden movement from Harry's hand. He had squeezed hers. For a moment, her heart fluttered and her stomach did a backflip, as she turned to find the man she considered a brother staring at her.

"Herm..." he wheezed, his vocal cords unused to speaking and his throat was probably dry. He sat up gingerly as Hermione took her hand out from his.

"Hold on," Hermione replied, grabbing a cup of water off a long forgotten tray, she brought it to the raven-haired Auror's mouth, who accepted the water greedily.

Once finished, he looked up at the ceiling, down at his bed, and back to Hermione. "How long... have I been out?" Harry questioned, his voice still sounding cracked and dry.

"Four days," she responded, feeding him water once more. The DCI graciously accepted. "Found you on a bench in Hyde Park."

"Bulstrom?" He asked suddenly.

Hermione shook her head. "Dead. Apparently you collapsed a boulder on the bastard." Harry eyed her in shock, obviously never having heard her swear so flippantly, but he recovered quickly:

"Thought I did something like that..." he replied, "but he'd hit me with that spell before I could make sure. Must've happened at the same time. Don't remember much. It's all a bit hazy."

Hermione looked at the Auror for a moment before she launched herself into his arms. "You stupid, stupid, _stupid_ man!" She all but shrieked into his shoulder, "Do you know how worried Ron and I were for you? And Ginny? I don't think she left your bedside!"

Harry hugged her back. "I'm sorry, Hermione."

She recoiled, moving out of the of the embrace so she could look him in the eyes. "No you're not," she replied, a little bit cross.

He smiled ruefully. "No. No, I'm not."

"Did you enjoy it, at least?"

"No, not really," Harry sighed, smiling at Hermione, "He turned out to be really boring, actually."

Hermione snorted in response. "Serves you right for doing that to us." Her face suddenly turns serious. "Harry, you know that this is not helping you. You need to talk to someone. Need to talk to me. Or Ron."

He shook his head. "No."

Hermione was growing exasperated. "Why do you have to be so _stubborn_?"

"You've known me for half of your life, when have I ever _not_ been stubborn?" Harry questioned lightly, "But, I understand. You want me to stop isolating myself from everyone. I can't do that. I can't come back. This is the way things should be."

"And what about Ginny? You know she loves you."

"Better she forget about me than love me when I can't love back."

"So... you're willing to just lose her forever?"

Harry shook his head and replied in a cryptic manner: "Some things are better left lost."

"And Ron and I? What about us?"

Harry shrugged. "You two are in love. Why would I get in the way of that?"

"Get in the way of that?" Hermione exclaims, "Harry, you've been our best friend for years; what makes you think you'd be a nuisance? I just don't like what you're doing to yourself, and I'm sure Ron wouldn't if he knew!"

"And what am I doing to myself?" The DCI asked, his head cocked to the side in an inquisitive manner. And there it is again, that unnerving stare that makes Hermione's stomach turn over and leaves her slightly lightheaded. But she steels herself for what she must say next, even if Harry won't listen:

"Don't be pigheaded, Harry," she retorted hotly, "I had to run diagnostics tests on you, you know that? You have remnants of Agilian in your system," she finished, barely whispering the last part. Harry's head fell, as if he had not accounted for such a thing.

The two remained silent for a long time.

"So," Harry started at length, "what now?"

"Well, what else?" You tell me why."

"Or?"

"Or I tell Ron, and have him tell Granath." Hermione winced, her voice came off as sounding more acidic than it should have and caused Harry to glare. So she decided to switch tactics, and placed a comforting arm on his shoulder before speaking again. "Harry, it would be for your own good."

Harry placed his face into his outstretched palms, as if thinking, before speaking. "Okay," he said, realizing that he had no other option, "You're probably the most well-learned witch I know, so you might know about this. First, can you cast a silencing spell?"

Hermione nodded, raising her wand and saying '_Muffliato_' before allowing Harry to continue:

"Have you ever heard of the Zeitgeist Phenomena?"

Hermione assumed she must have looked confused, as she had never heard anyone say that before, nor had she read it in any of her books. "No," she admitted at length.

"I wouldn't expect many people to, but, in times of war, it can become surprisingly common," Harry replied, scratching the unshaven growth of beard stubble on his jaw thoughtfully, "It stems from the use of the _Avada Kedavra_ curse. The Killing Curse is unforgivable, that is true, but its shadow function is far more dangerous than simply killing someone. It's believed, that the Avada Kedavra was originally invented as a cousin of the _Legilimens_ spell, meant to enter the mind, but rather than use to learn of one's secrets, it was meant to steal them. Some say the muggle trick 'Abra Cadabra' is a bastardization of the real spell, signifying something that was there in the victim's psyche one moment, a dream, a memory, an idea, was gone the next.

"It's said that every person someone kills with the Avada Kedavra curse, the user steals steals a fragment of the victim and it melds into his own psyche. The more you kill, the more you become a amalgamation of all those you've killed, hence, the 'Zeitgeist' Phenomena."

Hermione looked at Harry intently. "What does this have to do with you?" She interrogated.

"Everything," Harry cryptically responded, "How many people do you think Voldemort killed?"

"Hundreds," Hermione starts, "if not thousands. But what-_oh_!" The honey-haired healer clamped one hand to her mouth and another through her delicate golden-brown tresses in understanding.

Harry grinned. "You get it now?" He questioned.

Hermione could only nod. "He killed all those people, so he was a practical chimera made up of all those he murdered. And you, didn't you tell us that when you and Voldemort fought, the moment the Avada Kedavra rebounded, it became your spell?"

"Eidetic Memory serves you well," Harry praised; Hermione blushed lightly, "Even though I sent a disarming charm at him, it overpowered Voldemort's killing curse and combined with my _Expelliarmus _to kill him. Even though I never uttered those words, and the _Avada Kedavra_ was never cast by the Elder Wand, by being so closely associated with Voldemort all my life, the spells connected and were considered _mine_. And so, here-" he points to his head, "-I live with the pay-off."

Hermione blanched. "You mean, he's-"

"No, no, he's not in there. I've stolen a part of him and made Voldemort Harry Potter. And in some ways, I've taken another shade of every person he's killed as well, from my parents to Snape to various Death Eaters."

"So, you're..."

"No," Harry countered, anticipating Hermione's remark, "I'm still Harry Potter, for the most part. I still retain my morals, I just have different mannerisms, ways of thinking about things, so on and so forth."

"Like what?"

"Well," Harry began thoughtfully, "It turns out Riddle was quite drug-dependent. I know, it was a shock to me, too. But, the craving passed on, and while Agilian did not exist then for Tom Riddle, it is the preferred method for Harry Potter. And chess. I used to be mediocre at it, Ron would beat me all the time. Now, I think differently, almost twenty steps ahead, and Ron rarely wins."

Hermione chuckled. "I remember he was right cross about that," she said, before turning serious, "But, are you really, I mean-is a bit of him really up there?"

"Not entirely, but, in a basic sense, yes. I swear it on my life, Hermione," Harry replied sincerely.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be, the world's a colder place, but that's about it." Harry snarked lightly.

She hugged him again. "But you can't do this, Harry," she protested whilst squeezing her best friend tightly, "You can't kill yourself with Agilian. First, it's _illegal_, and second, it's no better than Heroin or Cocaine, it will kill you eventually, and I've heard that it can turn people insane if they overdose."

"I'm trying to cut down to cigarettes and cigars," Harry replied.

"That still won't help, Harry," Hermione mused, "You know that those will give you cancer, and as brilliant as magic can be, it can't stop the uncontrolled growth of radiated cells. As you grow older, you could develop lung or throat cancer, emphysema, increased chances of CHD, strokes, chronic bronchitis-"

Harry smiled. "Alright, alright, Hermione, I don't need a human encyclopedia on the health risks of smoking!"

Hermione broke of their embrace, face pulled into a grim, but strangely resplendent smile on her face. "But, still..." she paused for a moment and bit her lower lip in deep concentration. "I'll help you," she said at length.

"You'll help me?"

Hermione nodded happily. "I'll help you kick the habit, you can go back to being as you were before you fought Voldemort! I don't know how, but I can figure it out." Harry could not help but smile, definitely knowing better than to doubt his dearest friend could do anything she put her mind to.

"Okay, okay," he responded lightly. "So this stays between us for now?"

"Absolutely. Now you get some rest, another Healer will be coming in for mandatory check-ups and I'm sure there will be a lot of people coming by to see you soon," Hermione nodded, "And no cigarettes, Harry. None!" Harry chuckled as the honey-haired woman stepped out of his room.

He looked around, completely floored by what had just happened just as the door Hermione closed no less than fifteen seconds earlier banged open, revealing a furious Detective-Superintendent Granath and a sheepish Ron.

"Heard you were up," Granath spat. "You're out of London."

Harry gave his superior a flummoxed look, "I'm what?"

"Chief-Superintendent Stark didn't like your... _indiscretion_ over this Bulstrom case. For the next six months, you're out of SCU, and, by extension, out of London. First thing he said was to keep you out until you grow up." Granath stepped forward with a file that Harry grabbed out of his hand, "No more Homicides, you've been detailed on an Agilian drug-running crew. The biggest outside Bristol, and apparently a big dog up in Liverpool."

"Liverpool? Why Liverpool?"

"Something about that city, it just doesn't feel right. They someone's amassing something there, but don't know what yet." Harry's eyes widened at Granath's statement, The Circus was located in Liverpool! "There's been an increase in drug trade and dark magic in that city. Who knows what's going on up there, other than that you've been detailed."

But, then again, Bulstrom had said something about Liverpool being a dangerous city, perhaps a gateway for whatever 'Master' he had.

"Agilian," Harry remarked; his whole _life_ seemed to revolve around the drug trade those days, "And no London or Bristol."

"You'll be allowed to return home every once in a while, but as of now, you work well-undercover in Liverpool," Granath grumbled, "Drug dealing. Merlin, they have you working on drugs!"

"Somebody has to do it," Harry replied, shrugging.

Granath raised an eyebrow. "Not at the expense of solving _real_ crimes."

Harry had long known how Granath felt about the drug trade and the valuable Auror resources being wasted to fight it, citing it as a petty crime that distracted Aurors from doing their actual jobs of solving murders or breaking codes or protecting people. The only time, he said, that Aurors should waste resources on the Drug Trade was when a murder was the direct outcome of it. But, still, Detective-Superintendent Granath was an honorable man who would never go against orders, even if it was taking his DCI to Liverpool to capture some Agilian slingers.

"Still," he said, mimicking Harry's thoughts just a moment earlier, "Orders are orders, and the CS expects you up there once you're cleared by the hospital and have a little chat with him."

Harry nodded. "Sorry, Granath," he said, "we were supposed to go to Fahranar for recon, and it just so happened that the girl was there. We didn't really expect for any of this to happen."

"I know, I know," Granath replied, "I'm not saying anything you did was wrong, except maybe working with Helene-Harry, you _know_ she's trouble no matter what help she offers- but, next time, it would be nice to _inform_ us where you're taking DS Weasley and yourself at all hours of the night."

The door opened once more, revealing an unfamiliar Healer, who looked at the three Aurors rather nervously.

"Healer Granger has told me to check up on DCI Potter," she said meekly, "I'll need you two to leave for now."

Granath looked from Harry to Ron, and nodded at the redhead. They both turned and headed out the way they came as the Healer came forward. Granath, however, stopped at the door:

"Remember, you've got a meeting with the CS first thing when you get back to the OIM," the elder man ordered, "and pack up whatever you need, your new office is at the Liverpool branch of the Irish Metre."

"The NIM?" Ron questioned.

"Yes, the _New _Irish Metre. They say it's supposed to be very fancy," Granath replied, "Enjoy your check-up, Potter."

With that, the two Aurors turned heel and left Harry to the healer and his thoughts. Said healer fussed over the injured Auror for a little while, stating that he had Ron (whom she referred to as Auror Weasley) and Healer Granger very worried about him. She also told him that Ginny Weasley didn't leave Harry's bedside for an entire day, and only allowed herself to be separated because Hermione had forced the redhead to leave. But, once all the lecturing was done, the Healer told him that he would be discharged later in the evening and that he should get some rest before then. So, Harry complied, laying down and resting his head before he started to ponder his relationship with Ginny and the strange conversation he had with Hermione no less than half-an-hour beforehand.

And soon, he fell asleep, thinking of the past.

* * *

_May 3, 1998. 7:36 AM  
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, UK_

Harry surveyed the blasted ruins around him, looking upon the stones where Voldemort had fallen only the night before. His life and future prospects stretched out before him alongside the ruined but sacredly beautiful Scottish moor surrounding him, and children and displaced families, caught up in the postwar glow, ran happily together hugging and kissing, playing games and telling jokes, looking up in reverence to their beloved savior: Harry Potter. But Harry felt nothing, no happiness, no joy, no wants for hugs or kisses, games or jokes. It was as if a gloaming had set in about his life, and when he should believe the dawn was just around the bend, only night fast approached. So there he sat on a blasted pillar, looking for all the world like a traveler, staring placidly upon the sea of fog rolling up out of the Forbidden Forest and onto the school grounds.

Harry's reunion with Hermione was muted at best, feeling only a distant pang of regret when she punched him in the chest and lectured him on how stupid he was for sacrificing himself. His meeting with Ginny did not go well. She snogged him to oblivion the night before, probably to forget about Fred's death, but he had felt nothing, not from the kiss and not for her. He and Ron talked late into all hours of the night, but he felt nothing. He had a rich and hearty breakfast, but it all tasted as cardboard.

Harry wanted to do something, anything that made it feel right. He hoped sitting on this ledge and watching the families play would help, but even the children, and the students of Hogwarts reuniting with their parents did not fill Harry with any sort of peace or sense of inner-fulfillment. He felt hungry, like he wanted _more_. He had spent the last nine months hiding in a small tent with Hermione, on a fool's errand to destroy Voldemort's horcruxes, and now that it was finished, he felt nothing.

He did not feel at peace. He did not feel anything. He had won, but he'd never felt so... empty. It was as if Voldemort had won from beyond the grave. He felt nothing.

He wanted more.

More war, more fighting, more pain. What was the point of peace but to herd sheep? Sheep like these people in front of him who gawp at Harry like he was the Second Coming. What point was there to being the God to these people? What did it matter? He knew that times in front of him, dating Ginny, having children (prior to the end of the war, he had thought he wanted three at the very least), setting playdates with Ron and Hermione... what did that matter? It was the tent, being confined, having his wits tested by Voldemort, and his emotions and sanity tested by Ron's departure and Hermione's depression, that meant anything. Fighting Voldemort was all he thought about for seven years, and now that Voldemort was dead, Harry felt empty without the next great challenge.

He started to laugh. A deep, rich laugh that could only be uttered by a man who had seen God or by a mentally ill convalescent.

He was broken! Gloriously, freely broken! And he laughed! Voldemort had won! Dumbledore had lost! The world was saved, but Harry's soul paid the price.

"What's so funny?" A soft voice asked behind the raven-haired adolescent. It wouldn't take Harry the effort to turn around to know it was his best friend and closest confidant over the past seven years, and his closest ally over the past nine months, Hermione Granger.

Harry paused as she sat down on the pillar next to him, her normally bushy hair having fallen into soft, gently mussed golden-brown tresses due to a recent shower.

"Where's Ron?" Harry asked.

Hermione smiled. "Sleeping like a big, snoring, baby."

"And Ginny?"

"Down having breakfast with the rest of the Weasleys. I thought it would be best for them to grieve as a family."

He looked out over the fog once more and saw the children and their parents playing all around the grounds:

"Look at them," he said, "they're so happy."

Hermione smiled, her eyes crinkling as she turned to Harry. "I know. It's wonderful, isn't it? We're _finally_ at peace."

"Is that a good thing?" He mused, more to himself than Hermione, but felt her chocolate-brown eyes on his as she worked up the nerve to inquire after that statement:

"Why wouldn't it be a good thing?" Hermione asked, swinging her legs over the ledge and cocking her head to the side in a questioning manner.

Harry sighed. "Have you ever felt... I dunno, stuck, before?" Hermione's eyes blinked uncomprehendingly, beckoning for Harry to explain himself. "I don't know where to go from here. I've spent so much of my life protecting myself or trying to kill Voldemort, and now... I just never thought about what would happen afterward. Probably never thought I'd survive."

Hermione bit her lower lip, absentmindedly wringing her hands in deep thought. "I thought you were going to be an Auror."

Harry barked out a cynical laugh. "I _know_ I'm going to do that, but I feel... I feel like it's an afterthought. These last seven years, with you and Ron, at Hogwarts and on the run, this was my life, and everything afterward is just there for the sake of being there. I don't have a family to go back to, and I don't have anyone to grieve for. Except, maybe, Voldemort."

"Why would you grieve for _him_?"

"Because he was me," Harry remarked cryptically, "and Dumbledore. And Snape. As much as we wanted to kill the other at times, we were the only ones who could understand each other. And I'm afraid I'm the last one left."

"You are not alone, Harry Potter. Ron, Ginny, and I are here," Hermione said, trying to calm him.

Harry's gaze was serious as he spoke. "After this, we're all alone. Ron will no doubt be joining either Gringotts at Bill's behest or joining George at the joke shop, Ginny will be at school, and I will be stuck at Auror School. And you probably don't want to waste time hunting down Dark Wizards."

Hermione flashed a wry grin at the wizard, "Oh, I don't know about that. You've dragged me into so many adventures that I might just think that Auror-work is right up my alley." Harry smiled too. "Of course, I won't be doing it immediately; I've been extended an offer to complete Healer training at St. Mungos. Maybe once I get bored of hospital work, I'll come join you, right?"

"But how long is that?"

"Oh, hush," she chided, "You're just in a rut, I can see why, given how much of your life has revolved around V-Voldemort. But you'll get out of it, I promise. And if Ron and Ginny aren't around, I'll be there for you, won't I?"

Harry watched the fog, contemplating Hermione's advice.

"Won't I?" She repeated.

Harry nodded vigorously. "Yes."

"That's a good Harry," she smiled, leaning into his shoulder, "but before all of that, you know I have to go to Australia."

"Right. To pick up your parents." Harry said, Hermione nodded, her temple moving alongside the fabric of his shirt. "Would you like some company? Ron and I could come with." Harry asked; he had nothing better to do, and to get away from the U.K., for a few days at least, would be a welcome distraction.

Hermione looked up at the raven-haired boy. "I'd like that, Harry," she said softly before the two went back to staring at the families dancing in the fog, and Harry felt much better after having talked to his best friend than he had in months.

* * *

_August 31, 2002. 7:15 PM  
St. Mungo's Hospital, London, UK_

Harry's eyes opened, staring at a very unfamiliar ceiling. It took him a moment to find his glasses on the nightstand next to his cot and place them on. When he did, he saw Hermione, Ginny, and a preteen girl who looked to be the spitting image of Hermione watching him intently. Feeling a little uncomfortable, Harry waved at the two brunettes and the redhead:

"Uh... hi," he said awkwardly; Ginny smiled:

"Hi, Harry," she said softly, moving to hug him, which the dark-haired Auror accepted, though he felt nothing when he wrapped the girl up in his arms. She was beautiful, she smelled nice, but the only thing Harry felt was a distant brotherly protectiveness of Ginny.

"How are you feeling?" Hermione asked from the corner, holding the little girl's hand.

"Ugh," Harry gripped his sore abdominal muscles, "like I was run over by a herd of hippogriffs."

Hermione and Ginny chuckled as a small voice interrupted meekly: "I've read about them. Is it true that you flew one?"

Harry blinked, now recognizing the girl for whom she really was. Strange resemblance to his best friend of eleven years notwithstanding, this was neither Hermione's long-lost sister or remarkably old daughter, but rather the muggleborn Harry had saved from Aleister Bulstrom, Freya Thompson. Adopting a softer tone of voice than his normally gruff one used to bark out orders, Harry beckoned the little girl forward towards him:

"I sure did. My friend Hermione over there did, too," he said, smiling, before he extended out his hand, "My name's Harry, and you're Freya, am I right? Sorry I didn't get to speak with you earlier."

"Oh, no," Freya replied, moving up to Harry to shake his hand, her eyes twinkling in a manner reminiscent of the late Albus Dumbledore, "That's understandable."

Harry tried to stretch, but his body felt far too stiff. "Ouch," he muttered, rubbing his shoulders which caused Ginny to laugh, a mischievous glint in her eyes. Ignoring that his friends found amusement in his suffering an his bodies protestations, Harry swung his legs over the bed.

"Am I cleared to go?" He asked, Hermione nodded:

"Just let me do a few diagnostic spells before you go," Hermione stood, walked over to her sitting patient, muttered some incantations in Latin and made a few complicated swishes of her wand as a strange, alien feeling of calm stole over Harry. He smiled involuntarily at him and Hermione wore a bemused smirk at her best friend's reaction before her eyes focused past Harry at something he himself couldn't quite see. After a long moment of reading something no one else in the room could see, Hermione turned her gaze upon Harry's eyes:

"I think you're ready to be cleared," she said, Harry thanked her and looked around for his clothes. When he saw none, he turned back to the Healer and his ex-girlfriend:

"Do I have decent clothes to change into?" Ginny shrugged, Hermione nodded once again, and Freya blushed, no doubt uncomfortable to be in a room with a half-naked man.

Hermione pointed to a closet nearby his bathroom. "The clothes you were found in have been cleaned, they're in the closet over there. You can change in the water-closet." Harry fixed a befuddled stare at the brunette, wondering where else he was supposed to change clothes other than the loo.

"Thanks," Harry stood and moved to the closet, finding the clothes he had been wearing that evening four days earlier washed or dry-cleaned. He stalked into the bathroom and changed out of his hospital gown and into the clothes from the closet, before returning to the area where the three females awaited him.

"I feel much better, now," Harry said and moved towards Freya, crouched to her level and smiled, "How are you feeling, Ms. Thompson?"

The little girl stared at the floor, averting her gaze. "Better, I s'pose," she mumbled.

"Good," he smiled, patting the little girl's head, "You start Hogwarts tomorrow, right?"

Freya nodded, causing Harry to smile. "Have you learned anything about it?"

"Oh, yes!" Freya exclaimed, now looking back up to meet Harry's eyes, "I read all about in _Hogwarts, A History_. I don't know what House I want to go to, but I think I'd like to be in Ravenclaw, or maybe Gryffindor like you and Mr. Weasley and Miss Hermione here!"

Harry chuckled, facing Hermione. "She sounds like you," Hermione had the decency to blush, and Harry turned back to the miniature version of his friend, "I remember my first day. I met Ron and Hermione over here on the train ride to the school. It was the start to what were probably the best few years of my life."

"But you're not that old, how can you tell whether they're the _best_ years of your life?" Ginny snarks in good-humor.

Harry shrugs. "Not old? Depends on who you ask." He stood, "Well, I have to go. Stark wants me on the next train to Liverpool for the next six months, probably got fed up with my being nearby."

Hermione's eyes widened, and even Ginny looked shocked. "_Six months_?" The brunette asked, "That's a little overboard, don't you think? What are they going to do without you, Harry?" The raven-haired wizard shrugged:

"Probably going to move Draco up to Acting DCI," Harry chuckled at the disgusted faces both of his friends make, "Don't give me that look; Malfoy's still a little git but he's got his head on straight and he's a pretty damn good Auror." There was a little gasp in response to Harry's curse, he looked to see Freya covering her mouth in a shocked manner:

"Language, Mister Potter!" she ordered sternly, before her face turned red and she looked away, "Oh... uhm, er... sorry."

Harry looked at the girl for a long moment, trying to figure out something to say, mouth moving wordlessly. But the sight of the abashed child stumbling over her apology was enough to make anyone laugh, let alone Harry Potter. He chuckled, a deep, rich, musical sound that he could only muster in the presence of his Godson, Teddy, and other children. He had to admit, for a girl who had just lost her parents, Freya was taking it very well:

"She sounds exactly like you, Hermione," Harry said to the honey-haired woman, who smiled lightly, and then he crouched to the preteen's level again. smiling. "I'll keep my mouth as clean as possible, and I promise, if I ever swear in front of you again, I give you permission to wash my mouth out with soap." Freya looked up, a childish sense of awe etched into her features while Hermione and Ginny started to laugh, though Harry believed that was more due to the mental image of an eleven year-old washing out the Boy-Who-Lived's mouth as a mother would naughty child the two were likely picturing.

He is about to get up when Freya says his name: "Mr. Potter?"

"It's Harry; Mr. Potter makes me feel old," But just as Harry began to wave the girl away, she jumped towards him, wrapping the tall Auror in a tight embrace:

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" She repeated over and over into his shoulder. Harry, obviously uncomfortable with being shown such gratitude, looks to the Granger and the Weasley for help, both of whom shake their heads with poisonously sweet smiles. Shooting Hermione a glare, Harry awkwardly patted Freya's back and said something about how he didn't really do all that much and how it was Ron and Helene that had saved her, rather than himself.

But the little girl would have none of that and simply hugged the young man tighter. "I was so scared..."

"But you're okay now," Harry replied, moving out of Freya's embrace so he could look her, "And you'll be safe at Hogwarts." Freya nodded happily as Harry let her out of his embrace, after which she moved back and held Hermione's hand.

"I'll take you back to your room, Miss Thompson," Hermione said to Freya, and then turned to Harry and Ginny, "Would you two like to accompany us?"

Ginny nodded, but Harry shook his head. "I should really report to Stark and get to packing up my stuff, I'm practically on the next floo out of here. Apparently I get to see the New Irish Metre, so I'm not complaining, but still... I really should get going."

Hermione looked disappointed. "Oh, okay, Harry. I'll see you later, then?"

Harry playfully glanced at a non-existent watch on his right wrist. "In a half a year? Yes."

"Ron will go mental if he has to work without you for six months. And if they put Malfoy as DCI?" Ginny says, smirking, "How did that little bugger get to be an Auror?"

"Well," Harry replied in a mock-thoughtful manner, "when your entire family's assets have been liquidated by the Ministry and your father and mother are forced to flee the country, one has to find a way to make some sort of money. Every man comes to a point like that in his life. Lucius decided to side with Voldemort, and Draco decided to fight on the side of the angels."

"Doesn't make him one, though," Hermione retorted, keen on a little post-attack banter with her best friend.

Harry giave her a bemused look in return: "Darling, how many of us do you think are _actually_ angels?" He questioned cynically.

Hermione smiled cheekily: "You are," she said, and Ginny made a sound very similar to blowing a raspberry, causing Freya to let out a little giggle at the Auror's expense:

"Angel my thrice-cursed arse," the redhead muttered cheerily.

"I'm touched, Hermione," Harry snarked. "Please marry me."

Hermione smiled and didn't respond as they reached Freya's room. "Would you like to come in?" Freya asked Harry, who shook his head:

"I really should get go-"

"Please?" Freya pleaded, giving Harry her best puppy-dog eyes. Harry grumbled and nodded his assent while Hermione followed in and Ginny elected to wait outside. Once inside, Harry talked to Freya about school for a few minutes and what to expect on her first day, but found himself marveling at all the stuff in her room, which Hermione explained as the possessions Aurors recovered from Freya's home from her wand and school items to other personal effects. Hermione voiced her awe at how easily she could rebound from how much suffering she underwent, and Harry replied that Freya was a remarkable child. The girl bounced around the room, devouring books Hermione had gotten her, and Harry joked that Hermione seemed to be getting too attached to Freya:

"Well, it looks like you've got someone attached to you, too," Hermione replied, indicating Ginny, whom patiently waited out the door.

"I told you, some things are better left lost,"

Hermione stared at Harry incredulously, before he continued: "Besides, I've found the perfect person for me." Harry smiles lightly, and Hermione raises an eyebrow, biding him go on, "Well, he's smart-"

"_He_?" She asked, suddenly confused.

"What?" Harry questioned nonchalantly, enjoying taking the mickey out of his normally unflappable friend, "Didn't expect the great Harry Potter to go the other way?"

Hermione spluttered, trying to regain a sense of decorum. "It's... I-uh... is that why-"

"Yes, I broke up with Ginny because of him," Harry continued dreamily, "he's a little bit short, but, hey, who isn't short compared to me? He's a metamorphmagus, he loves milk, and this April he'll turn five."

That left Hermione with a strange and fascinating face Harry had never seen on the woman before: one of complete and utter befuddlement: "Five? Five years old? Harry..." her mouth moves wordlessly for a moment, before it dawns on her and the honey-haired woman breaks out into peals of laughter, "You're talking about Teddy aren't you?"

"Love of my life," Harry replied cheekily. Teddy Lupin was Harry's Godson, the son of his late friends Remus and Nymphadora Lupin, though everyone still called the woman Tonks even after she had married.

"When are you next going to see him? I'd like to come with, after all, I _am_ his godmother."

Harry shrugged. "I think I'll go tomorrow, before I head off to Liverpool." Hermione remained silent for a moment, before whispering, rather piteously, in a manner unbecoming of her:

"Please visit often, won't you, Harry?"

"On my honor," he replied, giving her a salute and dropping his voice to a whisper, "besides, who else will help me get over... my little problem?" He waggled his eyebrows playfully. Hermione swatted at his arm:

"Oh, you big oaf!" She exclaimed, turning back to Freya, who gave Harry a Sherlock Holmes book, saying that he reminded her of Mister Holmes and that she wanted to give him a present as thanks. Hermione smiled, telling Freya to get some rest, and turned back to Harry:

"I'll see you tomorrow, then?"

"Naturally," Harry replied, "Goodbye, Hermione."

"Have a good night!"

Harry opened the door and met Ginny outside, as they walked out into the London air together, where she stopped and looked at Harry expectantly, but he told her to have a nice night and promptly apparated away to the Old Irish Metre.

* * *

_August 31, 2002. 9:00 PM_  
_Old Irish Metre, London, UK_

When Harry arrived, he barely took notice of many of the well-wishers lolling about the atrium of the building. He nodded lightly at Gwen, the receptionist, telling her that he was to meet Chief-Superintendent Stark. She looked about her schedule, nodded, and called for CS Stark. All the while, Harry could not shake the strange sense of deja vu he got from this, feeling as though he had gone through the same routine during his very first visit to The Circus Headquarters. After the customary goodbyes, Harry marches to the elevators, involuntarily looking up to make sure he hadn't been transported into the Twilight Zone and there was no large golden Conflict-Globe glaring at his from stories above. An elevator opened, Harry stepped in, and watched the outside scenery of the London Skyline slowly shift with his ever rising vantage point until Harry found himself on the sixth floor, where Stark's office happened to be.

Harry continued his torrid pace into the Office and sat down in his chair before Stark could even say anything. "I assume this is about the Bulstrom Case, isn't it?"

"What the bloody hell else could it be?" Walter Stark, an aging man with reddish-brown hair starting to go gray, asked angrily, looking rather miffed at Granath's 'best operative'. "Look, Potter, I like you, and I like the work you do when you catch criminals... but you're too _bleeding_ _reckless_! Merlin's beard, you go running around with your partner and an informant who is possibly a murderer, then disappear to God-knows-where for hours and then appear on a bench in the middle of Hyde Park! Sound reckless to you? Because it sure as bloody hell does to me!"_  
_

"Well, excuse me while I go find myself a place to slit my wrists," Harry drawled, "I _did_ get your killer for you, didn't I?"

"Don't patronize me, Potter!" Came back the angry bark, "You broke with protocol, and I don't care if you defeated Voldemort or the devil himself, you _do not break with protocol_. Ever!"

"So you're relocating me to the NIM?"

"Until you prove you can solve Homicide Cases properly, until then, you're waging the war on drugs."

"Great, waging the war that never ends," Harry spat snidely.

Stark drew back, collapsing into his high-backed chair. "So, your blatant flaunting of the rules has gone too far too many times; I'm relocating you to Liverpool. We've got word from some agents in MI6, that know of the wizarding world, who say that we've seen an increase in Agilian production and sale, turning it into the drug capital of Northern England. And, to get you all smiley, there are rumors of Dark Wizards showing up all over the place that need catching."

But Harry wasn't listening. He stared at his superior in wide-eyed shock. He couldn't have said 'smiley' on purpose, could he? There are much better words to use than that: happy, giddy, so on and so forth; smiley is simply a strange term to use. Unless, of course, Stark was referring to Harry's new 'codename' of sorts in The Circus.

The elder man's lips drew upwards in a smile that left Harry with no doubt. This transfer was not petty vengeance for Harry's breaking protocol, but rather, a conscious move by The Circus to get him closer in hand. He wasn't sure what they wanted, but something told him that he should trust them if Stark was playing for their team; that man was not easily swayed or duped into believing an idiotic cause. But he'd have to test Stark first:

"What can I expect?" Harry questions suddenly; obviously meaning The Circus, but it could be easily mistaken as what he'd be doing at the NIM, just in case it was a massive coincidence.

Stark's smile grew even wider as he looked at Harry thoughtfully: "Oh a few bruises and scrapes, nothing serious so long as they get you doing the job you're most suited for. We even got you a nice apartment with all the amenities, you'll just need to bring personal effects and toiletries."

Harry leaned back into his chair. That was not something Stark would say if he were truly being relocated to Liverpool for a couple of drug busts. There was no way he wasn't... Stark had to be Circus brass.

"Am I excused?" Harry questioned.

"Go," Stark replied, the strange smile still on his face as Harry got up and exited the office.

* * *

_September 1st, 2002. 9:06 AM  
King's Cross Station, London, UK_

Harry watched the muggles pass by him, and he was sure he saw a wizarding family or two as he passed onward to Platform Ten, where the train to Liverpool would be taking him. Harry knew that he could apparate there with little difficulty, but, for some reason, he wanted to experience this day in the muggle way, even if he carried all his shrunken belongings in a briefcase to make things a little bit easier. Harry had already visited Teddy with Hermione, taking turns playing with the four year-old and conversing quietly with Andromeda onlooking. Harry walked past Platform 8. Then Platform 9, and three pillars downwards, he caught eye of a brown-haired little girl surrounded by a coterie of Aurors. The girl, Freya Thompson, smiled and jumped and at him:

"Hi, Mr. Potter!" Freya exclaimed.

"Harry," he corrected gruffly; Freya nodded:

"Harry. I'm going to Hogwarts today," her voice dropped to a whisper, "I'm scared."

Harry chuckled. "I was too, when I started. "Just be yourself and try to talk to some people while you're on the train, you'll be making friends in no time." Freya shook her head:

"I didn't have many friends..." she started.

"Well now's as good a time as any to start, wouldn't you say?"

The little girl nodded happily, and it once again astounded Harry as to how resilient Freya could be. Sure, she was nervous, insecure, but no different than any other child getting ready to go away to Hogwarts. He briefly thought that if he had half the resilience this preteen girl had, Voldemort would have died at that graveyard in Little Hangleton, killed by Harry's sheer willpower, Horcruxes be damned! He told Freya, for some reason, he seemed to have just blurted it out, that if she ever got lonely, she could write him, to which the girl happily agreed.

Soon, their time together was done with and Freya had to go on into Platform 9 3/4, and Harry moved onward to Platform Ten, but in that little eleven year-old, Harry saw something special. He couldn't place what it was that made the girl so very different in the long minutes between 9:12 and and 9:45, when he was supposed to leave.

But, as time passed, he understood why, thinking back to the moment he and Hermione had shared the day after Voldemort's fall. He saw people basked in the postwar glow, dancing and laughing and playing despite the tragedies that occurred over the year beforehand, and Harry felt nothing, no happiness, no peace, nothing at all.

But, now, he saw it. In a little, soon-to-be First Year, there was something to be appreciated. He still couldn't place what it was even after the train arrived, Harry just knew Freya shone like the sun rolling over the fog the day after the war ended, and he briefly thought that if he ever had a daughter, he'd want one like Freya.

The musing came and went, but the smile never left his face, even as he boarded the train off into his 'next great adventure'.

* * *

**A/N:** Decent length, I suppose, but I guess it's a bit of a boring chapter if you're not into chapters built around character development. Next chapter, I hope, will be a bit more exciting, as Harry gets to Liverpool, learns more about his assignment with the Auror Department and meets his team, as well as getting his first 'official' call from The Circus.

For DotU fans, the next chapter will be up by next Sunday.

Chapter Notes:

83 kilograms is about 182 lbs.

Football, as in soccer for Americans.

Harry's Zeitgeist Phenomena will come back to haunt him, and now you've got an explanation for his drug and cigarette use. Hermione, on the other hand, will throw he entire weight behind trying to fix Harry.

There's a pleading edge to Hermione's request that Harry visit often for a reason

Freya's comparisons to Hermione and Harry's to Sherlock Holmes are not without merit.

For all Ron fans, he's not going to appear very much in the next few chapters, which is a shame, because I really like writing him.

Also, note, that while this is ultimately an H/Hr, and Ginny's been acting a bit snide, it's no more than one would expect from a jilted lover. She's actually quite civil compared to most. Ron is much the same, he will not like where Harry and Hermione are headed, but that's no cause for him to suddenly turn head and become a pureblood racist who claims that he has a right to Hermione and becomes a, for lack of a better term, douche. No. Just no. For all those who love bashing, Ron/Ginny will get mad, they'll get jealous, but under no circumstances will there be any Ron/Ginny the Death Eater-ifiying to get Harry and Hermione together. Truthfully, you might even find those two more sympathetic than Harry and Hermione in the way these relationships shake out.

If you're wondering, Harry's musings on Freya are paternal, not sexual. I don't even know why I had to make sure you knew that, but I wrote it, so there.

In any case, thank you for reading, please review, and above all, I hope you enjoyed!  
Geist.

P.S. Forgive any typos, I'm still looking for a solid beta!


	4. Popping Cherries

Summary: Here come huge divergences to JKR's canon of what happens post-Voldemort: Harry heads to Liverpool find out his 'job'; gets home in time to hear about Hermione's frosty date with Ron; and Ron informs Harry of a case that might be of interest to the Auror-on-sabbatical.

* * *

The King of Limbs

Part 2

"...where there's no trouble."  
- Hermione Granger

II: Popping Cherries

* * *

_September 1, 2002. 2:20 PM  
__Lime Street Station, Liverpool, UK. _

Harry strolled idly down Hood Street, no further than half a kilometer from the Lime Street station in Liverpool, looking for a Sir Thomas Street, where his swanky home was supposedly located. He bumped past happy working-class Northerners, no doubt returning from their lunch hours and back to the various law firms, businesses, and loading docks where they worked. Such a close-knit city, Harry was almost floored by their friendliness. People actually _smiled_ at him; that never happened to Harry in London and it certainly didn't happen in Bristol, but, perhaps, that was because he hadn't visited the wizarding sector of the city, where, numerous sources had told him, the dark sparks flew.

He turned onto Whitechapel as his mobile began to buzz. It, of course, could only have been one person:

"Hey, Hermione," Harry greeted into the receiver.

"Hi, Harry," Hermione's breathless voice greeted back, "have you made it to Liverpool alright, then?"

Harry turned the corner. "Yes, I've just left the train station. Should be at my place in a few."

"Another one?" Hermione snorted, Harry could see her grin from miles away. "Some might say you're obsessed with getting further and further away from us. Before we lived in the same house at Grimmauld Place, then we moved into the flats. Then Bristol. And now Liverpool?"

"Yeah, you and Ron are bloody fiends," Harry joked, "I needed a six-hundred mile buffer."

Harry found himself staring down a rather charming brownstone on Sir Thomas Street, numbered 221A. He stopped to check the address CS Stark had given him. This wasn't a flat at all. Someone bought him a bloody _house_! But he does well to mask his awe. "Well that's certainly different."

"What's different?"

"I'll let you know in a bit," Harry replied, snapping his phone shut before Hermione could protest. He walked over to the door, stopped, rummaged through his pant-pockets to find the key he had been given to open the front door. Once he found it, Harry inserted the key, turned the lock, and watched as the door seemed to open itself opening to a very cozy home. A warm, if a little bit bland, cream color coated the walls and the floors were lined with dark brown hardwood flooring. The house came pre-stocked, so Harry had only needed to bring his clothes and other such personal effects, rather than furniture, which he gladly left in his Bristol flat.

He finds himself staring at a pretty little drawing room with three couches and a coffee table with what appeared to be a bunch of muggle classics littered about them. Perhaps The Circus had also learned of Harry's penchant for reading Russian novels after his defeating of Voldemort. He moved on through to the kitchen, which looked a little more modern, but with the same hardwood veneer that left Harry feeling like he was in a home out in the country.

As he moved upstairs, Harry's mobile rang again. And it was Hermione again:

"What have I told you about hanging up on me like that?" She huffed.

Harry shrugged. "I dunno, don't do it?"

"Yes. Don't do it again or I'll hex you. Now what was so bloody important that you had to hang up on me for it?"

"I'll show you," Harry concentrated for a moment, trying to feel out the magic that surrounds the house as he moved into the parlor, where a large and altogether homely-looking fireplace sat. "Are you nearby a fireplace?" He asked into the receiver.

"Yes," Hermione replied, "And you're in luck, I'm taking a late lunch break."

"Good. 221A Sir Thomas Street, Liverpool."

Before Hermione could say anything else, Harry snapped the mobile shut again as he looked around the house. There were three bedrooms upstairs and two bathrooms, though Harry couldn't understand for the life of him why he'd need so much. Moving into the largest room, which Harry assumed was the Master bedroom, Harry spotted a king-sized bed that he knew he'd never be using. And atop it, was a strange set of ivory white robes with a blue trim, consisting of a hooded regimental coat, and comfortable-looking, rawhide-colored trousers that were clearly intended for combat purposes. At the base of the bed stood two combat boots, likely made out of dragonhide, and dyed the color of brown leather.

Harry remembered that this was a male variant of the clothing he had seen Gerrard wearing on that fateful night five days earlier and decided that this must have been 'standard Circus clothing' when he heard a loud bang coming from the parlor he had just left, followed by a distant call of:

"Harry?" It was Hermione's voice.

"Coming!" He called, trotting down the stairs to the parlor, where he found his best friend dressed up in Healer's robes and looking rather disheveled from her trip through the floo network. Harry drew out his wand playfully and exclaimed in the manner of knights from terribly produced B-movies: "Back, evil banshee!"

Hermione was not amused. "Honestly!" She exclaimed, smoothing out her wild tresses, "Will you _ever_ grow up?"

"Have I ever told you who influenced me the most throughout Hogwarts?" Harry questioned. The obvious answer would be Dumbledore, and he was a mentor, even if his macro-perspective of the world (and his willingness to sacrifice others for 'The Greater Good') had irked Harry to no end, but there was someone who influenced him even more than the old man with the twinkling blue eyes and crooked nose.

"That's easy," Hermione replied, "Sirius."

Harry nodded. "Then why would you ever expect me to grow up?"

"Shut up, you," Hermione said, exasperated, but smiling. "So, this is the new Potter Cave, I presume? Nicer than I expected."

"Well, you know, the Ministry can tend to be very gracious for breaking about fifty different rules under investigative protocol," Harry replied. "Would you like something to drink?"

"You've already brought alcohol into the house?" Hermione questioned, incredulous.

Harry shook his head. "No. That was me hoping they stocked the icebox, too."

"Well," was all the Healer could muster up in response as Harry bustled about to the kitchen, looking for cups, which had already come prestocked in a cabinet over the kitchen countertop. He slipped around a marble-topped island, a stove affixed to it, and found the refrigerator. Idly, Harry remembered that he must thank Control and Stark for leaving this house as muggle-friendly as it could possibly be. Opening the refrigerator, he finds a lot of water. Jugs of water, water bottles, quarts, so on and so forth. It rather looked like someone stocking up for the end of the world, provided that said person was an idiot and forgot humans needed to _eat_ as well as drink to survive.

"It looks like all we have is water, is that alright?" He called out, hearing a distant 'yes' in the background.

He grabbed two water bottles and headed back to the drawing room, where Hermione had taken a seat on one of the three couches surrounding the coffee table. Harry handed one of the bottles to his friend and then proceeded to the love-seat situated on the opposite side of Hermione's couch by way of the table.

"Surprisingly nice," Harry mused, looking around at the cream-colored walls and inspecting the leather of the couch he sat upon. He unscrewed the cap off the bottle and took a nice, long swig, before staring expectantly at Hermione:

"What?" She asked.

Harry paused for a moment, cocked his head to the side, and stared. "How are you today?" He asked, quite suddenly.

If Hermione was surprised by Harry's sudden interrogation, she didn't show it. "Fine."

"Really? You don't seem it." Harry stopped to observe his friend. "Your bouncing your feet and squeezing left hand into a fist. Jittery, you're nervous about something. And now you're biting your lip, too, which always meant one of two things: you're thinking over a problem, or you're nervous. Seeing as we're doing nothing that requires exceptionally involved thought, I'm going to go with the latter."

"Big words, Potter," Hermione remarked.

"And now you're evading," Harry drawled, before his face morphed so that he appeared more serious, "Besides. I have to be able to tell when people are nervous, it's part of my job. So... what's got you all up in a fuss?"

Hermione didn't conceal her astonishment this time around, mouth hanging open for a moment before the woman realized how ridiculous she looked and clamped it shut, thinking over her next sentence carefully, and her words came out just as measured.

And to Harry, they sounded just as fake, as well:

"I have a date with Ron tonight," she said, a smile plastered on her face that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"You don't sound enthused," Harry deadpanned, biding her continue.

"I'm not," she agreed, and then realized her mistake, "I mean-I am! Er... well... uh-right, oh damn."

Harry chuckled; it was not often he got Hermione Granger flustered. "Come talk to Healer Potter about it."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "You don't heal. _I'm _a healer; You _kill_ people."

"Do not," Harry retorted, slightly irked by how petulant he sounded.

"Really? Because I saw Bulstrom, and that man was quite dead."

"Yeah, well, you can't kill children and expect to get away with it," Harry spluttered graciously, earning himself a smile from the honey-haired witch. "Besides, whether my job consists of convicting people, killing people, or raping unicorns is irrelevant because you're evading again."

Hermione gave him a look. It was a look Harry had become used to since the defeat of Voldemort, what Ron had liked to call the 'I'll-Jinx-Your-Bollocks-If-You-Don't-Shut-Up' look, usually reserved for one of the youngest male Weasley's numerous foot-in-mouth moments and when Harry's Auror Missions landed him at St. Mungos.

"Well," she finally acquiesced after a minute more of her patented murderous glare, "We're going to an Art Gallery."

Harry snorted. "That sounds a little... _avant garde_ for Ron, you know?"

"He insisted," Hermione said, throwing her arms up in exasperation. "_And _he's taking me to some fancy restaurant afterwards."

Harry, for the most part, remained impassive. "Well, that sounds like a better night than mine, so why are you so at loathe to go on a date with your boyfriend?"

"It's... it's nothing, really," Hermione evaded once more, "What are you doing tonight?" She asked, forcing the topic onto Harry, rather than herself. It was always a defense mechanism of hers, Harry knew. Hermione would often ignore her own problems and focus on the trivialities that everyone else suffered through. Harry himself was not unlike that, so he could understand when Hermione had wanted to drop the conversation altogether:

"Well, I get to meet my detail and then probably start on surveillance. All night."

"All night?"

"This is why I hate working Agilian cases; it can drive you wonky, considering how many all-nighters we've got to pull." Harry said, chuckling, but immediately fell silent at Hermione's glare, something he had come to be on the receiving end of quite often those days:

"An... Agilian Case?" She questioned; it sounded soft and unassuming, but Harry felt as if he were being interrogated, which he found, at that moment, rather funny. Had he really let that slip? Harry had faced far worse than Hermione, but he felt more oppressed by her than by serial murderers, and that made him laugh.

"What's so funny?" She asked dangerously.

"Nothing, nothing," Harry replied, waving Hermione away. "It seems I must ask again, though: what's got you all up in a fuss?"

"You don't see anything wrong with _you_ being assigned to an _Agilian_ Detail? You know, you-" her voice dropped to a whisper, "the man with the Agilian addiction?"

Harry shrugged, taking another swig from his water bottle. "No, not really, other than boredom. Stake outs could reduce anyone, even people as excitable as the great Hermione Granger, to clinical insanity or ritual suicide. Sometimes both."

"Now _you're_ evading."

"Am I? And what, pray tell, am I evading?"

"You know what I'm talking about."

Harry shrugged. "Well, it isn't as if I can just go up to Stark and say 'I can't do this case because I'm addicted to Agilian', that would defeat the purpose of keeping quiet about the whole thing, wouldn't it?"

A silence filled the merry little room, last embers of the flames in the fireplace just about to die out, as Hermione sat and thought. Harry couldn't tell exactly what was on her mind, but he had found he could come close with reading her expression. She was frowning, biting her lip, contemplative. He could see her trying to poke a hole in his logic, but Harry knew it was sound:

"I suppose you have a point, there," she mused, running a hand through her hair. "Just promise me you won't do anything stupid?"

"Well, I can't promise not doing _anything_ stupid, but I'll try not to get stoned, if that's what you're suggesting."

Hermione looked down, around at the room, and then snapped her fingers brightly and beamed widely. "And I know just how to keep you from doing that! You're going to get yourself a housemate!"

Harry wrinkled his nose. "You know I hate living with other people."

"You can get over your irrational fear of others and get yourself one, or I can drop by Detective-Superintendent Granath's office, needing to speak rather urgently about one DCI Potter." Hermione bargained, a light smile signifying victory plastered on her face. Harry, for a moment, felt quite angry, but he let a placid mask cover his true expression, and let only a wry smile show:

"Hermione, this really isn't healthy," he said, "far be it from me to judge, but chronic-blackmailing is _really_ not an attractive quality at all."

"I know, but this is the only thing that works on someone as stubborn as you. You know, make the stakes matter."

"Devious witch," Harry commented, a lot less angry than he thought he should have been, but, then again, this was Hermione. It was hard to get angry at her and even harder to stay angry.

"Why, thank you." Hermione did a half-curtsy, which Harry found impressive, considering she was still sitting. She suddenly let out a little 'Oh!' and took a look at her wristwatch, "I really should be going, Harry. I'll come back another time for the grand tour?"

"Sure," Harry replied, getting up from his seat to be respectful, "but you'll have to apparate out, I haven't any floo powder."

"Okay. But think about getting yourself a housemate, will you. You know I'm only looking out for you."

"As annoying as it is to admit, I know. And if you weren't my friend, I'd have hexed you into the MICU at St. Mungo's by now." Harry stopped and shrugged. "I'll look into it. Though I don't know many people who live in this city. Don't suppose you'd be up for moving in?" He finished playfully.

"Please, Harry. Moving six-hundred miles from my boyfriend to live with my best friend? Think of the _scandal_!" She joked before moving out the front door and stopping on the steps leading to the sidewalk. "I'll call back tonight, maybe bring Ron over after our date if you're in?"

"_If_ I'm in, that sounds fine," Harry said. "If not, I'll see you two some other time, yeah?"

Hermione nodded, padding out around the house to a more secluded area. Harry followed and waited as the brunette looked around for any wandering muggles, and then, when satisfied with her search, disappeared from his yard with a soft pop.

Harry stared at the now-unoccupied patch of grass for a moment before he sighed wistfully and returned to the interior of his home, gathering all the things he would need for his first day on the job.

* * *

_September 1, 2002 6:20 PM  
New Irish Metre, Liverpool, UK_

Harry whistled low at the sight before him. The New Irish Metre, serving the Midlands and most of Northwest England, was perhaps the most impressive and imposing military building Harry had ever seen. From the outside, it appeared to be two stark white buildings built alongside each other, with a third, almost amphitheater-like structure nestled behind the two taller, thinner buildings. A solid glass walkway, held up by steel scaffolding and base, connected the first building of the NIM to the second at the top of both respective towers, and the dome of the third peaked out from the space between the two frontal offices where an entrance was located, which also housed a man-made lake situated meters in front of the entrance doorways. It was an impressive feat of engineering, Harry had to admit, and all the more surprising was how much muggle architecture went into the creation of the office building. It could be said that the Auror Chief and the Director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement were quite fond of all things muggle, but Harry maintained it was simply because their architecture was so much more _beautiful_ than Wizarding Architecture.

The sky was tinged with a resplendent pinkish color that signified that the sun was just about to set, and bathed the buildings with a primordially beautiful orange creme glow. Normally, Harry would be hexed if he showed up at work near seven in the evening, but Stark had advised him to wait until the evening, because that happened to be when Narcotics cases happened to start up their surveillance, rather than the daytime.

Standing at the edge of Birkenhead, having taken the Wizarding Ferry from Metropolitan Liverpool, Harry stared down the building with a sense of awe. He almost pitied the muggles whom walked past the building without ever noticing it, convinced it was the single most marvelous thing he'd ever seen the wizarding world produce.

Finally, once he decided he had done enough gawping at the three massive buildings in front of him, Harry marched down the boardwalk to the road, passing down the sidewalk and cutting across a street to arrive at the courtyard, lined with some enchanting limestone that might have looked out of place in the normally gray and dim Midlands, but in the evening glow, they actually looked quite fetching. Harry passed around the lake, noting a fountain that had been erected in honor of Voldemort's defeat. Being the newest of the four buildings, the fountain was constructed out of some dark stone, in the likeness of three people who looked rather like himself, Hermione, and Ron, brandishing their wands at invisible foes beyond the pond. Behind them was Neville, carrying Gryffindor's sword. Hermione's wand was pointed upwards, a jet of clear water spraying out of it, Ron stood, looking at something whilst wearing an expression of grim satisfaction, wand at his side, and Harry's wand was facing dead ahead as a jet of (magically charmed) red water streaked out, perhaps to mimic the disarming charm he had used upon Voldemort in their final battle.

A wave of sadness passed through Harry as he thought of that day. There was no one left to match up to, now that he was gone...

But, the feeling soon passed, and Harry was able to make out smaller details of the building as he walked towards the entrance, part of a smaller, fourth little clinic of a building at two stories high. Like at the OIM, Harry and his wand were thoroughly inspected before he was allowed entrance into the building, and once inside, he could not have prepared himself for what would come next. No where near as impressive as the lobby of the OIM, he found himself in a small receptionist's room, accented by sterile flooring and equally lifeless wall paneling, but Harry had learned that there were large atriums designed for each of the three buildings. Passing through one of the doors, he found a woman sitting at a less grand receptionist's desk than the one he had seen in The Circus's vaunted hideout. The woman's jaw dropped upon seeing Harry Potter step through the doorway, but the 'Chosen One' ignored that and continued up to her:

"Potter. I need to find out where the Narcotics Section is? I'm looking for a Detective-Superintendent Rodgers?" Harry nodded as the receptionist spluttered a moment before regaining her bearings:

"Uhm... West Building. Seventh floor, Rodgers' office is on the Eighth," she replied nervously, checking her files, "Your new assigned unit operates from the eighth floor, as well."

Harry thanked her politely and moved on in the direction that the 'West Building' signs pointed him. After a few twists and turns, Harry found himself in the Atrium of the West Building, which looked a lot more like the entrance to a space ship than a building to Harry. Metallic floors and accents on the panels of the walls, which glowed an dim blue color, no doubt from the runes and wardings that protected the structure from any outside intruders. Like at the OIM, there were elevators located at the far end of the atrium. Wasting no time, Harry found himself quickly stalking into the elevators and punched in the button next to the number labeling of '8', and relaxed as the doors closed in front of him. He had not had a cigarette all day at Hermione's behest and he was starting to feel a bit jittery. Maybe he shouldn't have quit cold turkey.

Maybe he'd have an opportunity later.

With that thought, the doors opened in front of the young raven-haired wizard. The first thing he noticed was the faint stench of cigar smoke, and then he found a bunch of Aurors in Muggle street-clothing clustered in the middle of a vast and empty office space, complete with cubicles, typewriters compatible with parchment, and numerous knicky-knacky trinkets laying on any which desk. Wondering what was so important at the center of the office, Harry craned his neck to see a rerun of the Liverpool-Rovers fixture from when Harry was still out from Control's spell.

Truthfully, Harry was a bit shocked. He was well-aware that the Auror Department had recently been held in an unsavory light by more conservative wizarding newspapers, stating that there was simply too much fraternizing with muggles, claiming that the Ministry was trying to move the Wizarding Populace in the direction of complete fraternization with Muggle Culture, brought about by Harry Potter, whom was no doubt influenced by the Muggleborn Radical Hermione Granger. Harry smirked, remembering Ron's bemused reaction to his girlfriend practically being labeled a pro-muggle terrorist; which went something along the lines of: "Bloody hell, where do they get the bleeding balls?". This display, of Muggle Architecture, Muggle clothing, running the office the way muggle police did, and the sudden devotion to Football rather than Quidditch, which was the common obsession of all magical Britons, probably did little to assuage the right-wingers' fears.

Rather than alert the very interested workers to his presence, Harry decided slipping into Detective-Superintendent Rodgers office might be of more help than waiting around for the Liverpool/Rovers game to finish. He goes to the far side of the office, where a tinted glass door stands, the words 'Anne Rodgers' and 'Detective Superintendent' were embossed at the center. Knocking on the door to make sure someone was inside, Harry heard a lilting voice call from inside the office:

"Come in!"

Harry pushed the door open, finding a pretty blonde in her late forties scribbling away at a piece of parchment paper, staring at it long and hard before looking up at her intruder:

"Ah, DCI Potter!" She exclaimed. "How nice to see you again! Granath said you were to take over my division?"

Harry shook his head. "Not your division. I've been detailed on a case that might involve working with your team, I'd never dream of wrestling control from you, ma'am."

"How sweet, but you can call me Anne, Mr. Potter."

"Not unless you call me Harry."

"I can do that, Harry," Anne said slowly, as if testing out the word to see if she liked using it. As evidenced by her smile, Harry assumed she did. "Now, I believe you're working the Shankly Crew, no, not named after that muggle manager. I myself am an Everton nut, so I don't quite care for the drug crew and their homages. In any case, rambling aside, would you like to meet your Team, now?"

"Er..." Harry started, "It looks like they're rather busy."

"Since when has Harry Potter developed manners?" Rodgers questioned lightly. "When I was still in London everyone was talking about what an uncouth fool you were. A great Auror, but _Merlin_, what an arsehole! Don't be afraid of a couple of children in front of the telly, go and pick them up! Don't worry, I'll even help you."

Harry nodded gratefully, allowing the imposing woman to stand up to her full five-feet eleven inches and pass by him as she took the lead out into the area where all the 'children' sat clustered, eyes fixed on the game.

"Thomas, Freeman, Finnegan, Smith! I'd like you to come to my office," Anne barked, and four heads, three male, one female, swiveled around to rest on Rodgers. They immediately got out of their chairs and scampered over to the Amazoness of a woman who stood by her office doorway. She gave the quartet a curt nod and indicated they follow her into the office, where the four people came face-to-face with Harry.

"Meet your new boss," Anne said, smirking, "DCI Harry Potter, on loan to us after pissing off the Old Man down in London."

Two faces, faces Harry hadn't seen in years brightened. "Harry!" One of them yelled, a black fellow whom was sporting a goatee and dreadlocks. Harry immediately recognized him as Dean Thomas, Harry's dorm mate and one of his friends from Hogwarts.

"Dean," Harry greeted respectfully.

"So what was it?" Another Irish brogue greeted Harry, "I heard you dropped a boulder on the bleedin' bastard's head. I hope you did at least. After what he did, I hope it was painful. And messy."

Harry met the other man's eyes. "Seamus. Not painful, most likely. But definitely messy." Harry shuddered, remembering the part of Bulstrom's face sheared off by the bullets and shrapnel.

Anne looked at them expectantly. "Well, I'll leave you to it. Don't hold him up too long, however, we've got a long day tomorrow and I'd like you to head out before 10 o'clock."

Dean nodded and indicated for Harry to follow the coterie of Aurors out the room.

* * *

_September 1, 2002 9:12 PM  
Magical Design District, Liverpool, UK_

The Magical Design District, or the MDD, was apparently one of the hot zones of the Agilian Trade, or so Dean told Harry. Truthfully, even though Harry had more than enough experience with the drug trade, and was quite knowledgeable when it came to the Bristol Corners, he was out of his element in this new city, where fighting the war on drugs seemed to be as vital to the wizarding culture as stopping homicides were in London. It brought along new methods of thinking, new ways to track dealers and fiends, and new tactics Harry was altogether unfamiliar with.

They walked down a street where all sorts of refuse lay strewn upon the ground, an unholy stench emanating from them into the street. Harry quickly surveyed his surroundings, wrinkling his nose: four dealers on two corners, apparently belonging to the same group, so there was little chance of a fight breaking out. The homes and apartments surrounding the area were in quite a state of disrepair, containing boarded-up windows and collapsing brick facades.

"What I'm about to do, Harry," Dean said, dressed in the filthiest rags of robes he could find and eyeing one of the dealers discreetly, "is called a 'hand-to-hand'. We like to use it to build up material evidence against a target. You see, without any actual sale of drugs, bringing down a drug dealer is hard, and considering the Ministry laws concerning the drug trade, one is not allowed to take pictures of a normal transaction, claiming it impedes freedom and exchange of goods. So, we send in our own men to do the buying and take pictures with the consent of the 'buyer'."

Seamus, dressed in equally dirty robes that had once been white, but now was a dingy gray color, continued in Dean's stead. "Since we have three of our men stationed on top of the buildings with cameras to snap photos of the Dealer selling to the Auror, we've got the evidence in the drugs and we can prove that he sold it to us."

"And what do you do? Just snap photos and then pick him up?" Harry asked once they finished with their explanation.

"Silly Potter," Seamus replied after exchanging a grin with Dean, "So naïve!"

"What?" Harry questioned.

Another man, a blond man by the name of Freeman took pity on the confused DCI. "No one cares about street-level dealers, they can always be replaced. If you live in a city with enough crime, and enough orphans, you can turn Hogwarts-aged kids into remorseless killers and dealers. What you want to capture, on the other hand, is the man that supplies them. The leader is not easy to replace. He is the leader for a reason. We put him in bracelets, then the entire crew falls; if we put a know-nothing dealer in jail, he's replaced by another poor bastard _and_ the crew knows we're onto them, so they'll change-up 'business practices'."

"Oh," Harry said, feeling sufficiently stupid.

Dean let out a barking laugh. "Don't worry, _DCI_," He mocked, "It takes some getting used to for all you Narco-virgins. We'll be right there, and we'll be taking it sweet and slow until we've popped your drug-cherry."

Harry grimaced at the image. "Thanks."

"'Welcome," Dean replied cheerily before turning to Seamus, "Ready?"

"Yeah, you take the first corner, I'll get Harry up to the rooftops so he can see the other half of the job." Seamus said. Dean nodded, stalking off from the alley they were in as Seamus took Harry's arm led him into one of the buildings: "No apparition," he said whilst the duo climbed the side stairs, "too loud and it can spook the slingers."

"Thanks for the tip," Harry said, following closely behind the Irishman as they climbed four sets of stairs and finally ended up on a rooftop, where three hooded figures sat with what looked to be muggle cameras:

"Wizarding photographs have the flash, right?" Harry questioned, "So you use muggle cameras."

"Equipped with nightvision lenses as well. Gives us a nice, clear black-and-white picture even at the dead of night. Dead beauties, these things are!"

Harry moved slowly, crouching, at Seamus' beckoning, so he couldn't be spotted by touts or dealers on ground. He finds himself sitting next to a wiry blond man who gives him a smile:

"Dennis?" Harry whispered, "Dennis Creevey? You're an Auror?"

The blond shifted backwards from his camera, "Not an Auror, MLE Officer. I'm just on loan to the Narcotics division of the Aurors to foster healthier relationships between the regular DMLE and the Auror Department."

Harry nodded, it was true that there was little love lost between the Auror and Magical Law Enforcement Departments, despite the Auror Department was technically a branch of the DMLE. Possibly because the Auror Head and the Director didn't like each other very much, despite their shared passion for all things muggle. But, Harry ignored that and proffered his hand to the once excitable boy whose brother had died for the war effort:

"Good to have you then," Harry smiled. Dennis wore a contemplative expression, before breaking out into a grin and grasping Harry's hand:

"Thanks!" His head snapped to the side, "Hey, Finnegan, get Harry a camera, he might want to take a few pictures of this, too."

Seamus nodded, scurrying in his crouched position to a small rucksack that Harry recognized from the horcrux-hunting days, when Hermione carried that bottomless bag of hers around everywhere. Fiddling around the bag for a moment, Seamus eventually pulled out a camera identical to the one Dennis was carrying. He rushed back to Harry:

"Go nuts," he advised with a grin, handing the small, rectangular instrument to the DCI. "Just keep a low profile."

Harry leaned over the ledge that hid the numerous Aurors and DMLE Officers from the watchful eyes of the touters, dealers, and fiends, fixing one eye into the eyehole, staring down at the suddenly bright and clear black-and-white ground below. He spotted Dean, in his filthy robes, approaching a rather mean-spirited looking dealer, who was bald, and inked with numerous shoddy and rather dark looking tattoos. Holding a galleon in his hand, Dean moved to the man, who seemed to look up in recognition. Dean held out the hand containing the gold galleon and gave the slinger a high-five, transferring the galleon into his hands discreetly. Dennis snapped a few photos. The dealer paused, inspecting the galleon, nodded, and then nodded at a preteen boy, whom Seamus then said was a 'look-out boy', to watch for anyone like the Aurors or DMLE Officers. Seamus got pictures of the kid running away. The adolescent jumped off the stoop he had been sitting upon and scurried off around the corner into an alleyway. Harry captured a few pictures of the boy running back and handing a green-topped vial, which Harry knew contained a strange chartreuse liquid, to Dean.

To the right, as Dean started back towards the alley where he had come from, Freeman approached another group of dealers. He and Dean did not make eye contact as they passed each other. They repeated the process with Freeman, whom had gotten stuck in line behind two other fiends, but once allowed conference with a dealer, Dennis, Seamus, and now Harry were snapping photos of anything and everything that could be used as material evidence.

"Hard to tell unless you're into destroying money," Dean leaned over and whispered into Harry's ear once he was back on the rooftop, "but those galleons we're handing the slingers are fakes with a few warded tracking charms placed on them. So, no taxpayer is being wasted-" he paused for a little chuckle, "Luckily, it's incredibly hard to trace, and it's pretty much a done deal that those galleons are going to end up in some money stash in one of these project buildings, waiting to be picked up."

"Follow the money," Harry grinned, "it'll lead you right to the big guys, won't it?"

"Now you're thinking like a Narco-spook. Nobody gets in this shite unless he wants money, and all the important ones? _They_ got the money."

"And when they got the money-" Seamus began.

Dennis joined in. "-We got them."

Harry smirked, leaning over the ledge to see Freeman gliding down the street in a tempest of old newspapers and refuse as rain began to pelt the blacktop. A few more quiet moments, occasionally broken by the dealers whining about how the sudden deluge could affect profits for the rest of the night.

Freeman snorted in response, once he came up to the roof. "Yeah, if there's one thing that'll stop a junkie from getting his fix, it's the _rain_."

The group laughed quietly as Dean turned to Harry. "Welcome to the Urban Crime Environment, Harry."

"The Urban Crime Environment?" Harry questioned, a confounded look on his face.

Freeman clarifies once more for the Homicide-oriented Auror. "Down in London, they may have you chasing down psychotic serial killers and babyrapists with the Serious Crimes Unit, but up here, with the Merseysiders, you're looking at real crime. Drugs are not something to be ignored, or given a Dutch Pass on, as many Londoners seem to think, it's the cause of most of the problems up here. The drug trade fuels smugglers, murders, kidnappings, torturing... in essence, it's the starting point of all crime. If you're able to take away the starting point-"

"-Nothing can come from it," Harry nodded, understanding.

"Exactly. So, we target the drug trade, so through that, we can stop other crimes. That's the Urban Crime Environment."

"Come on, Harry," Dean said, "Let's take a walk. Seamus, Dennis, you're on surveillance duty, All the rest of you, you're off. Just get back to the NIM without alerting anyone and then you can clock out." The other group let out a few hushed whispers of excitement and tiredness as Dennis and Seamus grumbled and Harry moved towards the slightly shorter man:

"Yes?" Harry asked as the two descended the stairs and out into the alley. But rather than moving out into the street, Dean led Harry in the opposite direction, further into the alleyway.

"So, what did you think? Did you like it?" He asked excitedly, wearing a wide grin.

Harry smirked. "Well, I couldn't say I liked it, what with the drugs and all," Dean's face fell before Harry could finish, so he hastened to continue, "but it sure beats the hell out of staring at corpses all day." Dean's smile returned:

"I knew you would. I always thought this would be right up your alley!"

"Really? This seems more like a case Hermione would've enjoyed over me. I like my psychotics from time-to-time."

Dean barked out a laugh. "Don't we all?" He stops and lets out a sigh, "Sorry if it's boring work, but this is what we do. Sometimes you'll have all-nighters like Seamus and Dennis do right now. And, also, you may be a DCI with the SCU in London, and I may technically only be a DS, but this is my detail, and you don't know much about the drug trade, so I won't be having you going around and trying take power from me."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Harry replied, "You can have all the control you want, I'll be more than willing to 'play nice'. Besides, it's nice to know that if something goes wrong, you'll be blamed for it rather than I."

Dean lightly socked Harry in the shoulder. "Thank you. You can head back to your place now." Harry turned to walk away when Dean called out to him again.

"Yes?" Harry questioned, facing the DS.

"How did you do it, keep from getting it wrong? You know, with Voldemort, and your blazing rise through the Ministry?"

Harry shrugged. "I just made sure nothing went wrong," he replied, as if it were the simplest thing in the world, and turned, walking far enough away so he could apparate out of the area. With a sharp crack and the feeling of being squeezed through a tiny tube, Harry landed back outside the NIM, where he went to the doorway to be inspected, wand and person, and repeated his steps from his first visit a few hours earlier. He checked out with Anne, whom asked Harry how he liked the first hand-to-hand, which he said was interesting, and he looked forward to a few more tricks of the trade. All in all, it was about 10:30 in the evening when he left and apparated back to the doorstep of his home.

The night air was cool, surprisingly so for September, and the rain was cleansing, as Harry clutched his coat closer to him, the waxed cotton glistening as each separate droplet hit it. A moment later, he was still standing in the rain, breathing in the cool, cleansing air, trying to wrap his mind around the new state of play when it came to his work. No more cat-and-mouse games with killers or wannabe terrorists, but a chess game between the Dealers and the Aurors, and he was very eager to see what the next move would be.

Breathing in the cool air, and exhaling it once more into the gloaming, Harry looked through one of his windows, a strange sight catching his eye. His fireplace was active, spitting out golden-red tongues of flame. He didn't remember leaving the fireplace smoldering, in fact, the only time it had been used was when Hermione came and left through the floo network earlier in the day.

Four years of Auror training as well as being an Auror made Harry cautious, sometimes to the point of paranoia, Ron would say, but Harry drew his wand out anyways, and moved to the doorway. A quick _Alohamora_, and the wards surrounding his home recognized Harry, and let him steal in quietly. Keeping his wand trained down the hallway, Harry did a quick scope of the area. Whoever it was, was sitting on one of the couches in his drawing room, facing away from the DCI, towards the fireplace.

He moved slowly, making no noise as he crept upon the couch. As he was about to raise his wand, coming up over the couch, Harry stopped dead in his tracks to find Hermione dozing off on the couch. Here eyes were puffy and red, bearing all the signs of a person whom had cried themselves to sleep. Feeling a bit compassionate, Harry gently woke the sleeping woman. She opened an eye as he shook her shoulder, unfocused and flitting in all directions until it focused on Harry:

"You know, I don't mind you having a kip, but don't you think that would be better done at your flat?"

The honey-haired woman groaned, sitting up. She was wearing a very nice pinstripe dress that made the woman look quite fetching, though it had been slightly wrinkled by sleeping on Harry's couch. "I feel terrible." Her voice was dry, cracked.

"I'll get you some water," Harry replied, anticipating why she was croaking, rather than speaking. The strange part was that she was supposed to be on a date with Ron, and have brought him over once finished, but she was quite alone, not on a date anymore, and had been quite clearly crying. He opened the refrigerator door, scooping out another water bottle.

Harry knew, whatever caused Hermione to cry was likely done by Ron. And with a slight sigh, he knew it _was_ done by Ron. That man had _no_ tact, except for his penchant to engage in sometimes hysterical, sometimes downright annoying, rows with the woman who now sat in Harry's drawing room.

Walking back to the drawing room, he handed Hermione the water bottle, whom thanked him in that same cracked, dry, voice. He took a seat opposite her and opened his waterbottle as she did hers. On came a few minutes of silence and drinking, before Harry knew he most broach the subject of her appearance at his home, but he had to do something first:

"Hermione, what did I say to you when you called me a great wizard first year?"

Said woman smiled. "Testing me, are you, Potter?" Her voice sounded much better, regaining the musical quality he remembered, "You don't believe I'm really me?"

Harry shrugged. "Practice makes paranoid."

Hermione huffed in response. "Fine. You said you weren't as good as me."

Harry smiled wryly, this was Hermione and not some imposter whom had a lot of polyjuice potion. "Well, now that that's out of the way... we come to another question: why are you here?"

"Isn't it obvious? I told you I'd come." Harry's smile turned into a frown at the response. She was deflecting, evading the question, again.

"With Ron," Harry retorted amiably, sounding a lot less disappointed than he felt, "It's obvious from the dress, unless you really wanted to impress _me_ of all people, that you did go to that art gallery. But it didn't end very well did it? Otherwise Ron would be here and you wouldn't be crying." And so, Harry let out a long-suffering sigh that was meant to be comical, but sounded more like he was annoyed, "So, what did he do this time?"

"Nothing, nothing, really. It was my fault." Hermione replied, sounding rather apologetic for being sad.

Harry gave Hermione a sardonic look. "Ron's like a brother to me, and I love him, but, frankly, he can be quite daft about a lot of things. Especially things that concern other peoples' feelings. And, in particular, yours. So, truthfully, it's rather unlikely that it's _your_ fault when Ron is the other party."

The Healer smiled at Harry's deduction of Ron's inability to see things more than one way. "Accurate depiction," she replied, sniffling a little bit, "but this time it really was my fault."

"Really? What happened, then?"

Hermione paused, taking a sip from her water bottle as she stared into the fire contemplatively, the orange-red glow alight in her eyes as the brunette bit her lower lip. "Ron tried to ask me again. About the time he was away while we were hunting for horcruxes."

Harry's eyes flashed. "That again? How many times do I have to tell him nothing happened?"

"No, not that. He just wanted me to... tell him what we did, how we coped. But I couldn't. And then we got into a row right in the middle of the restaurant. I was so humiliated that I just went home and flooed here because Ron wouldn't be able to find him."

Detaching himself from the situation, Harry observed that he would have to give Ron his address soon. But the thought quickly came and went, because he had more important things to deal with, like the hysterical Hermione eight feet away from him. "And why couldn't you tell him?"

Hermione looked up from the fire. "He could never understand what we went through, what _I _went through."

"Aren't you being a little melodramatic?"

The brunette glared at Harry. "Am I? Then tell me: Why couldn't you tell Ginny the truth when she asked the same question? Why couldn't you tell her how hopeless and lost we were? The depression, the fear... is it because you were being _melodramatic_?" She spat out the last word with such viciousness that Harry almost flinched.

But he laughed instead. "You've got a point there. I was just playing devil's advocate. I remember you saying something similar to that when I came to you with this very same problem between Ginny and myself."

"Did I?"

"Yes," Harry said, still grinning, "And let me say, I reckon your rebuttal was much better than mine."

Her frown finally quirked upward into a pale, half-shadow, ghost of a smile as Hermione thought deeply, taking a long drink from her water bottle. "Why is it so hard to explain?" She asked suddenly.

"Why is what so hard to explain?"

"Everything?" She started. "The time after Ron left, when we went to Godric's Hollow, everything up to Voldemort and beyond. When you disappeared for a year for Auror training, when Ron was in London and I was still at Hogwarts... why is it so hard to explain, and understand, how much we've changed."

"Don't look at me like I have the answer," Harry warned playfully, "There's so much more that I can't explain, and I don't even know why."

"Like what?" Hermione's cinnamon eyes took on a questioning twinkle, shining brightly in the glowing room. Harry paused to take a deep breath and feel the heat on his cheek. There was one thing he never told anyone, not even Ron or Hermione, because he often wondered what they'd think of him if he told them.

"No. Never mind. You wouldn't want to hear it."

"Let me decide that, Harry," Hermione replied, all traces of her tears gone as she moved from her couch to sit next to Harry. Once she had done so, she turned and faced him, tucking one leg under the other and resting her side of the spine of loveseat.

Harry really felt apprehensive now. He had always wanted to tell Hermione, wondering what she'd think, but was often too afraid of the same thing to speak of the matter. But, as she touched his shoulder, and nodded slowly, deep eyes imploring him to speak to her, the woman he could always have relied upon, and Harry knew that any hope of the apprehension keeping his words in his throat had died away; there was nothing else to tell but the truth:

"The day after I killed Voldemort," Harry started. "I woke up in the same bed I had always been in when at Hogwarts. But only this time, there was no threat of a prophecy hanging over me. And the man who had made so much of my life hell was gone, too. And I just stared up, and however happy I felt that Voldemort was gone the night before, that day it all hit me. There was no more fighting to be had, there was no one to strive to become the equal of, anymore. Dumbledore and Voldemort were gone, and only I was left. That left me feeling rather empty."

"And?" Hermione questioned after Harry paused.

"I cried," Harry said simply. "Not tears of joy, but sorrow that Voldemort wasn't still alive. I went out to find his body-they had dumped him in the Forbidden Forest for the time being-and just cried. He wasn't there to fight anymore. And I haven't cried since."

Her eyes widened, her mouth went slack-jawed, and Harry knew he had said the wrong thing. "What?" Hermione whispered.

"You once asked me why I broke up with Ginny, even though she only wanted to make me happy."

"And you, like a moody prat, told me happiness was useless," Hermione nodded, remembering that day.

"At St. Mungo's, on what days are you happiest?" Harry questioned suddenly, leading Hermione through his thought process.

"A slow day where there's no trouble," the brunette answered quickly, knowing many Healers would agree with the sentiment. Harry nodded, continuing:

"And, would you say you come home feeling more fulfilled-not happy, but more _fulfilled_-on a slow day where there's no trouble, or when things are falling apart at work and complications arise and you're able to help?"

Hermione paused, obviously she was considering the question. Her eyes turned contemplative once more, which Harry had always liked; Hermione figuring out questions gave an extra dimension to her eyes that he found quite fetching.

Wait. Fetching? _Hermione fetching_?

Before Harry could stop to contemplate the strange turn his mind had taken, Hermione answered. "The latter," she said, carefully, as if she were speaking blasphemies against God.

"So, then, you understand," Harry smirked. "What makes you happy is rather useless, and valueless. Let's leave out the fact that Ginny _could__ not_ make me happy, and realize that, even if she could, how would that be fulfilling or in any way meaningful?"

"Someone might find it meaningful," Hermione countered, sounding rather petulant.

Harry shrugged, leaning backwards. "Someone, maybe, who has never been in the presence of Dumbledore, seen their Godfather blasted into the Veil by Bellatrix, or faced down Voldemort. The domesticated life, that's not me. And not having Voldemort around meant there was nothing else to overcome." Harry paused, remembering a rather vivid dream he had a few nights after May 2nd, 1998, that stuck with him even now. "You know, I even had a dream about having a big, happy family a few days later. Or maybe a hallucination, I don't know."

"About what?"

"I was thirty-seven, sending my kids off to Hogwarts with Ginny while you and Ron were sending off your first-born. It was a bizarre dream, and maybe it was indicative of what might come should I pursue 'domestic bliss'. I hated it. All my life, I just wanted to be normal and have a family, and when I saw this dream, I just felt dissatisfied."

"With what?"

"Well, the 'dream' me was happy; all was right in his world. But I was dissatisfied by what my life had become. It's hard to explain. There was just something deeply and fundamentally wrong with the way things had ended up."

Hermione leaned back into the other side of the couch as well. "Maybe we're all just a little bit dissatisfied by who we become. I can tell you that being Ron's baby repository is not a life I'd like to lead."

Harry, mid-sip, began choking on his water.

"Harry?" She questioned, moving towards the choking man to help him when Harry held his hand up to stop her from coming closer. He coughed a few more times until he falt the water go down the other tube and spent a few moments steadying his breathing:

"Merlin, Hermione!" He exclaimed afterwards.

Hermione grinned wickedly. "That was a joke."

"Right, a real riot, that one," Harry snarked, "you and Ron together in bed is the _last_ thing I want to think about."

"Why?" Hermione cocked her head to the side, "We've been together nearly four years now, surely you must have anticipated it to have happened by now. Ron thought you and Ginny were shagging every moment you were alone."

It was now Harry's turn to grin. "Smart bloke, that one."

Hermione's eyes widened at the implication. "Really?" She asked.

"Let's just say Ginny and I were a rather _expressive_ pair."

The Healer's eyes bugged out.

"One thing bugs me, though," Hermione started thoughtfully after a long and slightly awkward silence, "if you were disappointed by the prospect of marrying Ginny and having kids with her and living the dream, why'd you two date after the war?"

Harry's grin, if anything, turned predatory. "Truthfully-and don't tell Ron this-both of us just had a bad case of teenage hormones. Lots of shagging, little to no talking about anything. And, sure, I'm a bloke, I'll take _that_ over talking any day, but eventually, everyone realizes how hollow the relationship is. Ginny may be a little snide now, but she'll eventually realize she's happier now than she ever was with me. I mean, you and Ron must have a better balance of that, considering how long you've lasted."

"Honestly," Hermione began, a little uncertainly, "Ron and I haven't ever..."

Now Harry had to admit he was surprised. "Never?" The brunette shook her head:

"Is that surprising?" She asked with a smile.

Harry shrugged. It was slightly surprising, yes, but well-within bounds of what Hermione would do. "But I never expected Ron to have the patience," he admitted, smirking. "I suppose I should blame it on your stubbornness rather than his patience, then?"

"A combination of both," Hermione replied, snapping his fingers lightly. Both of them chuckled slightly as a companionable silence fell between the two friends. They sat quietly for a few minutes, as Hermione noticed the books on his coffee table, before wondering why there were so many Tolstoy and Dostoevsky novels that Harry seemed to own, and Harry informed the brunette on his recently picked-up hobby for muggle literature, to which the Healer gushed and praised Harry for being able to pick up a book, something Ron still hadn't done.

A few more minutes of lighthearted conversation followed before Harry checked the clock, realizing it was nearly midnight. Hermione apparently noticed as well, gathering herself up and fixing a sleepy smile on Harry:

"I'd best be going, it's getting late."

Harry nodded. "Yeah, Ron must be going absolutely spare looking for you."

She moved towards the fireplace, before snapping her fingers again, "Damn. No floo powder, still?"

"It's been less than eight hours and I've been at work most of the time."

"Speaking of work," Hermione said, putting her coat on and moving to the front door. "Ron says that he needs to talk to you about a sensitive issue going on in the SCU tomorrow. He wanted you to be at his flat by 7:30."

Harry furrowed his brows. "I don't think I have the authorization for that anymore."

"Well, if I had any influence on your decision whatsoever, I'd tell you not to go for your job's sake," Hermione replied cheekily, "But since I know my opinion doesn't really matter to you, have at it."

Harry shook his head and smiled softly. "Thanks for the tip, anyways, then."

Hermione grinned and hugged him, craning her neck and standing on her tip-toes to rest her chin on Harry's shoulder. "Thank you. For talking to me, that is. You really calmed me down."

Harry smiled, inhaling an aroma of vanilla and parchment paper from the shorter woman. "Just once for the million-billion times you've done the same for me." He stopped, realizing what he was doing, and backed away from the brunette, keeping his easy smile on his face so that Hermione wouldn't notice anything amiss.

"Follow me out?" She asked. Harry nodded.

With that, Hermione turned on her heels, opening the door, and took one rueful look at the raining sky, before casting an impervious charm on herself, waving goodbye Harry and stepping out into the yard. Harry slipped on his waxed-cotton double-breasted coat and followed her out, not bothering with the same impervious charm as Harry enjoyed being out in the rain. Hermione slipped around the corner, heading for the dark spot in the backyard where the wards wouldn't reach, the same area where she had apparated away earlier in the day.

"Good night, Harry," she said once they reached the dark, shady patch of trees that afforded them some cover from the rain and prying muggle eyes.

"Good night, Hermione," Harry responded, waving as she disappeared with a sharp crack, which was barely heard in between the peals of thunder and loud pat-pat of the rain.

* * *

_September 2nd, 2002 7:26 AM  
1 Kingston Dr, Apartment 3E, London, UK.- Ronald Weasley's Apartment_

Harry sighed, marching groggily to Ron's doorway. The day had started off poorly, as Harry had to roll out of bed at around five in the morning after having taken a late night. Furthermore, he found something he hadn't noticed the day before that came with the uniform The Circus had given him, a note that gave Harry instructions to meet with Control on the Fourth of September, a Wednesday, Harry's first day off from work, and apparently the little note would turn into a portkey at 8 AM that day.

His day only got better, read: worse, when he decided to apparate six-hundred miles to London and nearly vomited upon touchdown, which would have led to a very awkward and embarrassing scene, no doubt. Furthermore, the rain from the night before had apparently migrated down to London by seven o'clock and was pouring by the time Harry had reached Ron's apartment.

The building he lived in was rather pretty if Harry had anything to say about it, if a little over-the-top. It was really the garish type of thing Ron would go after in order to cash in the most value out of his meager Auror salary. Black and white tiles littered the floor in a diagonal pattern, leading downwards to a small sitting area at the end of the hallway, where the statue of nude woman stood. Harry promptly ignored said bust as he passed by and stood at the polished door, a _3E_ hanging over it.

Harry knocked on the door. Two raps, a pause, and three more afterwards, a sure sign that it was Harry visiting and not someone Ron would like to avoid. After a few moments, the door opened, revealing a flat painted in the most outrageously orange color Harry had ever seen, chosen by Ron because they were 'Cannons Colors'. Ron stood in the doorway, not with a grin as Harry usually saw him, but a grimace.

"What's wrong?" Harry asked, sensing his friend's discomfort.

Ron grasped him by the wrist and dragged him inside the apartment, shutting the door behind him, breathing heavily.

"What's wrong?" Harry repeated.

The redhead glided over to the couch, looking reed-thin, and abnormally pale. He was sick, and it didn't take a genius to realize this was psychological damage. He collapsed on the couch, rubbing his eyes, and Harry could immediately tell he's been up all night.

"I heard about your fight with Hermione," Harry says suddenly, looking for something, anything to talk about.

Ron groaned. "Tell her I'm sorry, will you? She probably won't want to see me today, and I... I've got too much on my mind."

"What is it?" Harry interrogated, folding his arms, and leaning against one of the shock-orange walls.

"Luna," Ron breathed.

"What about her?" It was common knowledge that Ron Weasley and Luna Lovegood, as odd as it had seemed to anyone who were their peers at Hogwarts, were good friends much the same way Harry and Hermione were close. Perhaps it was scandalous, but Luna was married, so the relationship between Ron and herself was decidedly platonic. Harry, however, had never seen Ron look so worried about the girl.

Ron turned to look at him, light blue eyes falling on Harry. "It's her dad, Harry; Xenophilius Lovegood was found dead in his home yesterday morning. We still don't know if he was murdered or if it was a suicide."

"Oh," was all Harry could muster.

* * *

**A/N**: I suppose it's a bit of a cliffhanger. So, I dealt with the epilogue with the infamous 'dream escape'. But, it does tie into the story. I had originally planned for this fic to be epilogue compliant, and it started around Christmas time Albus-Severus' First Year at Hogwarts. However, the whole dance with Ginny and Ron would detract a lot from the overarching plot of the fic, and I decided that the paranoia that gripped the world directly post-9/11 was a far better backdrop for a story that focuses so much on the drug trade and (eventually) terrorism. In fact, after discarding the 2017 storyline, I wanted to start the fic on 9/11, but, truthfully, considering that Harry would have likely been in England (though I could have relocated him to America), he wouldn't have done much else other than watch the news for a little while. I've decided, finally on where the story begins and ends. As you probably read, it began in August of 2002, and will continue until the aftermath of the London Bombings on July 7, 2005. Why that date is the 'end' is for me to know, and you to read on and find out.

The chapter title has a bunch of different meanings to it: Popping someone's cherry, for those who don't know, usually means a virgin woman having sex for the very first time. It signifies the loss of innocence, and such. In the chapter, Dean calls Harry a "Narco-virgin", and proceeds to 'pop his cherry' by taking him out on a hand-to-hand stakeout; we find out Hermione is still a virgin; and Ron introduces the reader to the 'loss of innocence' in the story with Xenophilius' death, which pretty much signifies the start of the major plot. Soon, characters will start doing more and more questionable things, particularly Harry.

Which leads me into my note about the characters: Harry is obviously not going to be as light as Canon Harry is. He's arrogant, self-loathing, and a bit of a tosser. He's probably going to be the ultimate example of a Well-Intentioned Extremist, for you tropers, and a Type IV on the Sliding Scale of Antiheroes and can sometimes hit Type V. Ron's more of a typical hero, and you'll kind of see that difference more expounded upon as the fic continues. Harry is definitely the darker of the two characters, but that isn't to say Ron won't agree with him on what's coming, he'll simply be less willing to do 'whatever's necessary', which Harry won't have nearly as many scruples about. This is sort of embodied by the difference between The Circus and The Aurors- Harry's falling into a world where Terrorism is the new norm, and one has to become a terrorist to fight 'injustice' (Nietzsche's 'He who fights with monsters' quote comes back to me especially). Ron, on the other hand, may have a few hangups, but he is a fundamentally good soul. Ironically, between the two, Ron is turning slightly into Harry as he is in DH, while Harry is following the same path Dumbledore, Grindelwald, and Voldemort went down, though his intentions are more pure than than the others (with the exception of maybe Dumbledore). And don't think Hermione's still the Bookworm with a Heart of Gold, she'll do some pretty questionable things just as Harry and Ron will by the end.

**Chapter Notes:**

Lime Street Station is an actual train station in Liverpool.

Note that ATCO agencies do not work in their respective capitals nor their most 'successful' city. The Lake (which will be renamed The Intersect, soon) of America is located in Chicago (as compared to D.C. or New York), The Circus in Liverpool, La Résistance in Lyon.

Hermione's date with Ron is important. It highlights what I think are some core issues of the JKR's characterizations of Harry, Ron, and especially Hermione.

The NIM was almost entirely based off the ICC in The Hague, Netherlands.

Hermione's comment about making 'the stakes matter' will return later on.

"Dutch Pass"- Don't think it's a real term, but in terms of the fic, it means to let drug dealers off easy or treat the drug trade with leniency. Named after Amsterdam and the 'lenient' laws against drug usage there.

**Thanks for bearing with the REALLY long notes. Remember to leave a review on your way out! They really boost confidence and help me get the next chapter out faster!**

**Geist**.

P.S: As I voiced my support for the Thunder last chapter, I'm finding it rather insufferable to be the only Bulls fan located in South Florida right about now. But, hey, England's still in the Euros, right?

Knock on wood.


	5. Midlands Boys

Disclaimer: All things Harry Potter belong to JKR.

Summary: Harry and Ron have a quick conversation about the Lovegoods; Hermione muses on the way to work; Seamus and Dennis introduce Harry to some of the Cartel boys.

* * *

The King of Limbs

Part 2

"Always _money_ with you lot."  
- Seamus Finnegan

III: Midlands Boys

* * *

_September 2nd, 2002. 7:33 AM  
Ronald Weasley's Apartment, Mayfair, City of Westminster, London, UK_

Harry collapsed into one of Ron's shock orange chairs, sinking into the garish leather. The death of Xenophilius Lovegood would be felt throughout the wizarding world once news of his death leaked. With Luna's help, and a bit of funding from Harry after the war, _The Quibbler_ had been turned into a respectable newspaper that now catered to the upper-level intelligentsia of Wizarding England, much like _The Old Republic_ in the United States. He had been a kind man, and Harry was genuinely saddened to hear he had died. Blood pounded through his ears, creating a sort of low-bassline that one would normally only hear coming from a triphop album that rushed wildly around Harry's skull. Suddenly, Harry felt a headache coming on, and a familiar feeling in his gut, and decided he needed the day's first cigarette:

"Mind if I take a light in here?" Harry asked, reaching into his coat pocket for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

Ron shrugged. He made a noncommittal noise that sounded like 'okay', despite that was garbled and mumbled by the clearly depressed redhead. Harry took it as a yes, lighted the cigarette, taking a moment longer to look at the gold-red flame, wondering why it reminded him of cinnamon. Shaking the strange observation from his head, Harry placed the cigarette into his mouth, taking a long deep drag, enjoying the sensation of smoke filling his lungs. For something so dangerous, Harry to admit: smoking _was_ calming.

"Those are bad for your health," Ron observed.

Harry shot his friend a disinterested look. "So is being an Auror, but I don't see anyone complaining about that." Ron raised his hands up in a placating manner, and both men chuckled somberly. Harry took another drag.

"Hermione would kill you if she saw you puffing fags all day like that."

"She knows," Harry grunts, "At St. Mungo's, she gave me a list of all the complications I could get from smoking."

"Good girl," Ron smiled a ghostly smile and promptly sagged in his chair; obviously his mind had returned to the larger situation: the death of Luna Lovegood's father. "What are we going to do? Can you come in to inspect the body? Malfoy told me you had an eye for how people die."

"I don't even know if there's anything I can do. I haven't got the authorization and I'm working full-time at the NIM, for now. Doesn't matter if a street urchin or Kingsley bit it, if it's not drug-related or nearby the Midlands, I can't touch it."

A nervous energy spread throughout the room. Harry knew Ron would struggle while Draco had been put up as acting DCI, but it had only been a few days and it already looked like Ron's nerves were shot. This was a case that Harry knew Ron would struggle with, given how close the he, and the Weasleys in general, were to the Lovegood family.

"I'm really, really sorry, Ron. My hands are tied. But we'll go around by Luna's house this evening, when I'm off work."

Ron shook his head. "No, Harry, you know how it is. I'm practically locked-in at the office for the next forty-eight hours, what with this high-profile death, especially because, while we haven't got anything concrete, signs are starting to point in the direction of murder. How about Wednesday?"

Harry knew Wednesday, the fourth, was a terrible idea. He was supposed to meet Control, and, truthfully, he had been itching to return to The Circus Headquarters. There were so many questions he had for the man. "No, I can't do Wednesday. It's one of those all-day training days to get me acquainted with Narcotics."

The redhead nodded. "Then we can go separately, now, and visit together on Friday, assuming I can get back on Hermione's good side."

"Don't worry, I'll talk to her."

"Thanks, mate."

Harry stood, turning away from Ron. "How's Luna taking it?"

"As any loving child would, I reckon," Ron replied quietly, as if he were trying to recall every bit of Luna's reaction. "She's quiet, but I can tell she's hurting."

"Give her my best," Harry said. "I have an early day today, but, here, I'll tell you what. If I can get out before six, I'll apparate over to the OIM, and you can take me in afterward to take a look at the body. I can't guarantee anything, though."

"Better that, than nothing," Ron gave Harry a genuine smile, "I'll see you, mate."

Harry nodded, asking to nick a bit of parchment paper before he headed towards the door and out of Ron's building. Once outside, and back in the rain, Harry wrapped his coat closer to himself, dropped the near-spent cigarette and stamped it out with a foot, and walked the three miles to Hermione's flat, where he gathered a fountain pen in his coat pocket, the parchment, and wrote a note for the woman, slipping it through the crack underneath her door, taking care not to wake her up should she be sleeping still. On the parchment, he wrote in his usual chicken-scratch handwriting:

_Meet with Ron; he has news.  
- H._

Short, simple, and commanding: it was something very _Harry-like_ to write. Once satisfied with his short note, Harry returned to the rain, and then to a safe, Ministry-designated, apparition point, as he felt himself being squeezed through a tube far too small for someone of his stature and was carried off back to Liverpool, at the edge of Birkenhead, about half of a kilometer from the NIM.

Harry quickly met with Anne; the Superintendent gave Harry a smile as she gave the DCI a rundown on what was to be accomplished today, where Harry and Seamus, both were partnered, were to go into the Irola Towers, a wizarding project for those who didn't quite make anything of themselves at Hogwarts. Seamus would then introduce Harry to some of the bigger players of the aptly-named, though Harry wasn't sure why, 'Shankly Crew' while they were making their rounds.

Harry, surprising himself, felt more comfortable around his NIM workmates over his subordinates at the OIM. He would like to say it was due to the fact that he didn't have the king of gits in Malfoy breathing down his neck every waking moment, but it wasn't true. There was simply something more calming and cleansing in working with these men, who knew when and how to crack and take a joke, over the pomp and seriousness of the _truly_ aptly-named Serious Crimes Unit in London.

Two hours later, after grabbing a spot of breakfast, Harry found himself dressed in rags for robes alongside Seamus, watching three project towers rise up in the distance, surrounded by smaller, dilapidated apartments. Harry dearly missed his coat right then, it was a chilly day, far more so up in the North than it would have been down in the capitol.

"You know animagus transformations?" Seamus asked, "Might give us an easier way to observe all the going-ons of the Irolas."

Harry nodded apprehensively. "Yeah, I do, but my animal's... a bit _distinctive_."

"Oh, yeah? How so?"

"It's a Grim," Harry said, smirking at Seamus' exclamation of 'Bleedin' Hell!'. "Suppose my godfather influenced that bit." The tragic story of Sirius Black and his true connection to the deaths of James and Lily Potter had become the stuff of legends since the fall of Voldemort, and the mangy Marauder, even if it was posthumous, got a little bit of the recognition he deserved. Some even went so far to say that his heroism at the Department of Mysteries, despite that the Ministry itself was hunting Sirius down, was his 'greatest prank ever'. It had surprised Harry, when in his first year of Auror training, he had found himself staring at the image of a large, jet-black, wolf-dog staring back at him through the mirror of his Advanced Transfiguration Classroom. Though Harry eventually found it fitting: his patronus form was his father's animagus, and his animagus form was Sirius'.

Seamus stuffed his hands into his robes. "Well, I guess we'll go around looking all Dickensian, then," he said, offering up a smile. Harry smiled back and nodded as they crossed the street, both having cast glamour charms upon themselves so that Harry appeared to be a brown-haired, blue-eyed young man and his partner looked like a distant relation to the Weasley family.

They passed by a circle of unfriendly-looking teenagers, who kept their hands in their pockets, no doubt fiddling with their wands. Harry briefly let out his amazement at the sheer volume of witches and wizards at the Towers, wondering when all of them went to Hogwarts, to which Seamus gave the DCI a strange look.

"Potter, don't you know? These people didn't go to Hogwarts." Harry turned at the Irishman's words:

"So, then, these are-"

"-The Refugees? Yeah, they are."

Harry whistled. "There sure are a lot more than I expected."

"Mostly immigrants, mate. From the Middle East, Africa, China... I hear India's the only place there that takes a decent stance towards its Magicals." Seamus said vaguely, squinting, "Refugees from Russia especially; the Soviets were not fans. Unlucky sods, can't even go to Hogwarts without citizenship within the Ministry, _too_ dangerous to let non-Britons into Hogwarts, and its _too _dangerous to go back home, considering-"

Harry nodded. "Considering the state of affairs between East and West."

"Yeah. So they just sit around and try to make money any way they can. Shite. I mean, take one look at their lives and you'll see why they all wanna get high."

"Ready?" Harry asked.

"Yeah, just make sure to pay attention, you're gonna have to keep this in your head until we can give you the full-on briefing back at the NIM."

With that, the two moved on into the Irola courtyard.

* * *

_2-9-2002 8:02 AM  
Hermione Granger's Apartment, Mayfair, City of Westminster, London, UK_

Knowing Harry Potter, Hermione Granger decided whilst brushing her teeth, was like living in a surrealist play. Every moment with him was rather similar to acting out a scene from _No Exit_ or _Waiting for Godot_, something that was by turns philosophical and life-affirming, and, at the same time, hopelessly absurd and headache-inducing. Honestly, she had never quite met someone so bizarre as the man, and, truthfully, the older the trio got, the more strange and alien Harry had become to her. Perhaps it was because she spent more time with the decidedly normal (or, at least as normal as a wizard could be) Ronald Weasley, that Harry had suddenly become so fantastical and strange, but Hermione realized now, with a sense of building sadness, that she had missed something that triggered a change in her best friend. Something she hadn't even thought about until she went over to his house last night.

She spat out some of the paste into the sink, which had turned into a foamy, frothy mess, washed her mouth, and the set to flossing. There were dark bags under her eyes, the sign of another long night plagued by nightmares of her torture. She briefly wondered how Harry ever dealt with them.

Harry.

As truly strange as it sounded, he had mourned Voldemort. The man who murdered his parents. The man who sent him on a carousel of fear for seven long years. And, most ironically, gave Harry the fame he so hated.

Perhaps that was Voldemort's ultimate victory, spitting fatal fame back in the face of his murderer, who was not just any man, of which would grab at fame and clutch it close to heart, but the one person in the world who would rather be utterly and completely normal.

Except, Hermione thought whilst moving out of the bathroom and towards her kitchen table where a small note lay with Harry's unmistakable excuse for handwriting, that aspect of Harry was not completely normal. He had no desire to be normal. He did not want to settle down and have a family, as was the goal for Harry before the death of his much-villified nemesis. He was simply looking for what was _fulfilling_. As to what that was, Harry didn't answer, and Hermione was more than intelligent enough to stay away from answering such a question.

Hermione stopped at her icebox and pulled out a vial of viscous, purple potion, unstoppered it, and made a face as she gulped the contents down.

There was no hate in Harry's eyes when he talked of Voldemort, as there was in everyone else when they spoke of him. Even Hermione couldn't resist spitting out the name like it was poison. But not Harry, he _understood_ Voldemort. Hermione didn't know if that made her happy or sad. But she remembered how strangely out-of-place, how nightmarish and absolutely insane it was the day after the Battle of Hogwarts, when the Weasley family, Harry, and Hermione had gone to the Pathology section of St. Mungo's to claim Fred's corpse.

* * *

_3-5-1998- 3:31 PM  
St. Mungo's, London, UK_

Harry, in one of his depressive humors, as per usual, snuck off from the family while they were completing the paperwork. Hermione followed, out of concern for her friend.

Harry went to visit Fred, and found Colin Creevey lying on another table in the same frigid room, magically chilled to a shiver-inducing temperature. Hermione watched him from a distance and saw him let out a strangled sob, and a bitter laugh, at the tags on either man's feet, stopping only a moment to switch the tags-the one on Colin's to Fred and the one on Fred onto Colin's big toe. She would later find out that both men had been mistagged, and she felt terrible as Harry must have. Of course, the likeliest answer was there was a mistake and someone hadn't been paying enough attention with all the injured and dead in the hospital, but she knew Harry to take things like these as being symbols: What was the point of their deaths if no one could even remember their names?

Sticking behind a wall so he couldn't see her, Hermione followed Harry once he swooped out of the room and moved towards another room at the end of the hallway with purpose. She didn't know how he knew where he was going, but Hermione stuck close to him, watching as he stopped at another room, with a large gurney in the middle where many Healers were clustered. Hermione couldn't tell what they were doing, but soon found it was nothing good when Harry's face morphed from cold indifference to outright volcanic fury.

Hermione had rarely seen Harry angry, and it was one of the moods she did not like seeing from him. It made him seem... so heartless. Hermione scampered closer, out of sight behind a wall, but with a view of everything as she peaked around the cover of the wall. The Healers had been spitting on a body, and they saw Harry, smiled, and gave way to the middle, where the unmistakable and nude body of the once Lord Voldemort lay.

Perhaps they were expecting him to spit as well. But Harry stared into his nemesis' cold, wide, glassy eyes, and the the legion of saliva that covered his face, and rounded on the group of Healers, furious:

"Have you no respect? No shame?" He asked. His voice was quiet, and the previously gleefully malevolent atmosphere at once became deathly silent. The smiles vanished from the other live faces, and they were left confused at the boy's antics. "Leave," he whispered.

"With all due respect, Mr. Potter, we have a duty to stay with the bod-" one of them tried to say, before Harry cut the man off:

"_Get out_!" He yelled with such vehemence and vitriol that Hermione was surprised none of the healers dropped dead that very second. Some looked like they might protest, but most were cowed, and slowly, one by one, they filed out of the little morgue room.

Hermione was surprised by Harry's tenderness once he thought he was alone. He pulled out his wand, the holly-and-phoenix feather one, and whispered _Scourgify_, cleaning off the dead man's face, the spittle gone from his lipless, noseless countenance. And with the care of a soldier looking down on one of his fallen comrades, Harry reached up and closed the man's eyes with his thumb and ring finger. He stared down at the body for a moment, before looking up, straight at Hermione, whom felt a little embarrassed as Harry spoke:

"No enemy deserves to be spit on once fallen," he had said. Hermione couldn't help but agree with the sentiment, but she felt rage bubble forth, as well, at Harry's misplaced compassion:

"And if he wouldn't give you the same courtesy?" She questioned, trying to keep her voice calm.

Harry shrugged. "That's no excuse. I am not him."

Hermione had walked up to him, standing side-by-side, and watched Voldemort's body resting on that gurney for the longest time, until she had remembered that both of them should be with the Weasley family.

"Come on, Harry, let's go back," she said after a while.

He shook his head. "No. You go back. I'll... I'll be along."

But Hermione didn't leave. Somehow, she knew that she must be with Harry instead of the Weasley family. So she took his hand and let him lead her to another Morgue Room. No Healer dared disturb the Great Chosen One. But, worryingly, he just went from one room to another, looking at the faces of the dead.

Hermione had caught Ron's eye as Harry went into another room and the Weasleys' went to Fred's, and the redhead gave her a questioning glance. She shook her head and pointed at Harry. Ron shrugged and went into the room after his family.

"What are you doing?" She asked from the doorway, as Harry stared at another face.

He was silent a long time before answering. "I'm making myself remember the face of every person I've killed for an idiot's prophecy."

* * *

_2-9-2002- 9:19 AM  
St. Mungo's, London, UK_

Hermione observed the dilapidated building from across the street. For three years now, every day, she had been stepping through the window of the apparently-condemned _Purges and Dowse, Ltd. _department store and found herself in the lobby of the hospital she had made her second home. Ron often joked that she was there so much, that her flat was actually her second home and the on-call room her first. In fact, the night Ron had gone to Portishead with Harry, whom decided to get his fool arse blasted with some unknown curse, said Redhead and Hermione were supposed to go to dinner at the rebuilt Burrow. But when Harry called in Ron's stead and canceled (she was quite cross at Harry for not making Ron call her himself), Hermione went right back to work on an overtime shift, allowing her to be on duty when Ron had brought Freya in and frantically searched for Harry.

It was unfortunate, and Hermione felt she was being very childish for feeling so, but the idea of Harry and Ron having exploits without her being the brains of the operation made her feel strangely empty. She met the woman who had helped them, a quite exquisite witch by the name of Helene who looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties, her ice-blue eyes shining with intelligence. Ron said something about Harry and Helene being 'decidedly platonic', with a sarcastic drawl and air quotes to match.

For a moment, just one moment, while staring down at the 'decidedly platonic' woman, Hermione sincerely regretted her career path. When Harry had told her he was offered Auror Training over going back to Hogwarts for Seventh Year, she had been disappointed. She knew that, inevitably, Harry would leave both Ron and her behind to be an Auror. It didn't make it any easier, however, going back to school when neither of her best friends would be coming back. Nevertheless, Hermione was nothing if not persistent, and she persevered through the year. She had originally wanted to work at the Ministry, perhaps to be closer to at least one of her friends, but becoming a Healer had just gripped Hermione when she saw them working. It was hard work, yes, but satisfying work.

But then Ron became an Auror as well, and Hermione wondered what it would be like putting a dark wizard in bracelets, rather than watching, waiting, _hoping_ her patient woke up.

Hermione shook the thought from her head, laughing slightly at her own stupidity. Years of running around with Harry and Ron must have either turned her into an action-whore or a moron, she thought.

Besides, she had been standing, staring at the window for five minutes now. People were starting to look. With a harrumph, Hermione walked towards the window, determined to have a conversation with Ron, if only to find out what Harry wanted her to know so badly.

She was surprised, to find the object of both her ire and desire for knowledge waiting for her nearby her office, a cramped, but neat room filled with medical textbooks and parchment paper.

"Ron," she addressed the youngest male Weasley frostily.

"Hermione," he sounded pained, "I guess Harry didn't apologize for me?" He tried for a joke, but Hermione did not pretend to be amused. "Right. I'm sorry for the way I acted yesterday, but there was a lot on my mind, and I just needed to hear something... something comforting from you."

Hermione's eyes softened. She couldn't stay mad at Ron, realizing that a lot of what happened last night was indeed her fault for not being able to open up. Now, however, Hermione felt she could do it; she had opened up a little for Harry, her best friend, of course she could do it for Ron, her boyfriend!

"I'm sorry, too. I've been a fool, trying to hold on to what happened. I mean... so _much_ happened!" She was stopped by a worrying look on Ron's face. "What?" She asked.

"Er... Hermione? You and Harry didn't...?" He trailed off with a grin, and Hermione realized Ron was pulling her leg.

"Shut up," she said, smiling, ignoring Ron's quip of 'Good, because even _I_ haven't'. "We'll talk about all that happened soon. For now, Harry left me a note saying you had something important to tell me?"

Ron's previously light countenance instantly darkened. "Xenophilius Lovegood."

"What about him?"

"He's dead."

There was a silence. Hermione wondered if Ron was joking again, as nobody would say something like that in such deadpan manner. But the look on his face told her the opposite; that Xenophilius Lovegood was most assuredly dead.

"Oh," Hermione murmured weakly.

* * *

_2-9-2002 - 10:12 AM_  
_Irola Towers Courtyard, Liverpool Magical District, UK_

"Watch your step," Seamus said to Harry, looking down at the broken up sidewalk, a literal pile of smashed cobblestones. Harry grimaced, but walked across anyways, taking care to keep the jagged rocks from cutting into his already-damaged boots. Two more unfriendly men; tall, silent and Russian, glared at the two as they passed.

"Bodyguards," Seamus whispered, "They're going to inspect you, don't want anything on you, not even a wand."

"Is that why you told me to leave it with Freeman?"

The Irishman nodded. Suddenly, the two Russian men lurched forward, converging on Harry and Seamus with wolfish grins. Seamus immediately splayed his arms out wide, so Harry did the same. One man administered a pat down of the DCI, the other did so to Seamus.

Once satisfied, one of the men spoke out in a garbled accent: "Very well, you may go, now."

"Where are we headed?" Harry questioned, once out of earshot of the two mooks.

Seamus remained silent for a moment, leading Harry through a courtyard of equally unfriendly-looking wizards. They were a strange assortment of wizards; some appeared to be Russian, Chinese, a few Indians, all standing at different corners of the square. In the middle, was a couch that had seen better days. Three African wizards sat upon it, two playing checkers while another looked on and watched.

The grass surrounding the cobblestone path was wild and untamed, making Harry's calves itch as he passed through. Still, the other Auror led Harry to one of the larger tower projects, a tall, ugly building with a red-brick facade, and pushed one of the glass doors open. Harry grimaced when he was what appeared to be bullet holes from a muggle firearm in the doorway. Many of the wizards here, Harry had realized, never had proper schooling on how to use magic, so they often resorted to muggle methods of fighting and very crude magic. Boor wizards, Harry supposed.

Both Aurors swept into a dingy lobby, with dirty red carpets and the air saturated with the acrid tarry scent of unfiltered cigarettes permeating the air. Harry, used to the smell, awaits Seamus' instruction, whom doesn't do so directly, having put a finger to his nose and making a face.

"Third floor," Seamus choked out, coughing from the stench. Harry just grinned. Being projects, there were no elevators to speak of, and the one maintenance elevator appeared to be out of order, so the duo made use of the side-stairwell.

Every time Harry's foot fell on a step, all of which happened to be rotting wood, giving the stairwell the odor of mold, they let out a loud creak and shifted as if they were about to collapse under the combined weight of both Aurors. Perhaps by luck, if nothing else, the duo managed to make it to the third floor without dying.

"311," Seamus said, having gotten used to the strong scent. Both Aurors stalked down the hallway, finding Room 311. Harry watched as Seamuse procured a small golden key for the lock of the rotting door, slid it into the keyhole, and turned. The door opened just a crack, enough for Harry and Seamus to slip through, where they found themselves in a dodgy room that certainly felt like a flat in a condemned building. A figure, who turned out to be Dennis Creevey, huddled by the window stiffened as the two Aurors strode into the room.

"Took your time, didn't you?" The MLE Officer shot.

Seamus shrugged. "We're here, aren't we? Besides, Potter's boyfriend just _had_ to see him, it's not like I could've done anything about it." Harry shot the other Auror a disinterested look before moving to Dennis. "Look at that bowlegged wanker," Seamus continued with a wolfish grin, "Weasley do that to you, too?"

"I just slouch. On the other hand, you should ask your mum why she's been walking like that lately," Harry replied, leaving the insult hanging. "What have we got, Dennis?"

Dennis shrugged as well, shifting his camera from one hand to the other. "Not much action today. Apparently the fiends have already come or we're waiting until lunchtime. But-"

"-but, we can start on educating your dumb arse," Seamus supplied.

"Not how I'd put it," Dennis replied, showing his distaste for Seamus' bluntness, "but I suppose it works. Take a camera, DCI." Dennis points over to a cache of cameras at the right of the room, next to what appears to be a bulletin board filled with the pictures, names, and birth dates of at least thirty different men and women, fashioned into some bizarre form of an ancestry tree.

Harry picked up his camera and stared at the board in awe. At the top, there were simply names of 'Reed' and 'Bashar' as well as 'Roland'. No pictures, just names and suspected DOBs. "Who are they?" He questioned. Seamus slided up next to him:

"These are the wankers you're going to help bring down," he said brightly, "from the top of the chain to the lowest most basic dealer. You know, end the war on drugs up here in Liverpool."

Harry eyed his minder skeptically. "End the war?" He questions, trying not to outright laugh at the Irishman. Even Dennis snorted at Seamus' naïveté:

"This war doesn't end, Fin," he said bitterly, "put all of them in cuffs and by tomorrow, they'll be dealing same shit as ever. It's when you stop the ability to produce drugs themselves that the war ends. And there isn't a single soul here that wants the slingers to stop making that sweet, sweet Agilian."

Harry had to admit he was taken aback. He had never heard Dennis speak that way at Hogwarts, though, Harry surmised, having one's brother end up murdered in a war does darken the world a bit:

"Great, I've gotten partnered with two cynical bastards." Seamus groused, "How the hell do you even get out of bleedin' bed in the morning if you don't think anything you do will change anything?"

"Paycheck doesn't hurt," Harry smirked, Dennis grinned.

Seamus shook his head. "Always _money_ with you lot. Potter, you don't even _need_ money, so don't use that as an excuse!"

Harry, knowing the conversation was finished and over with, turned back to Dennis. "What have we got?"

"There's an optical zoom on the camera," Dennis started, "rotate that dial clockwise and you'll zoom in, rotate it counter-clockwise, you'll zoom out. I'll be telling you to look out for some people, snap pictures of them, commit them to memory."

Harry stopped. "Why do you put all this stuff up here rather than at the NIM?"

"Don't worry, Harry," Dennis replied, "the board the cameras, everything, that's all portable. And when we're here, this place is warded like hell. Just, take a look out on the courtyard with the camera. Try finding the couch." Harry zoomed onto the three men sitting on the couch. Two of them were still playing checkers, though it looked as though they had started a new game.

"Got them," Harry said.

"See the two playing checkers? Those are two street-level dealers that go by the names Sting and House." Dennis began, "Real names are Anton Benediktov and Russell Smith. Standing at the corners are Derrick 'Hawk' Jones, a Kenard 'Hark' Jones, Daniel 'Stone' Wallace, and Ahmet 'Turk' Özek. The one on the sofa, that one doesn't go by a slinging-name, it's just: Andre Reed. He's one of the Lieutenants of the trade."

"Lieutenants?" Harry questioned.

Seamus nodded. "Second in command, If we were to compare it to the Aurors, a Lieutenant is a bit like your position; DCI. He runs the operation most days when the head honcho isn't 'round, but doesn't get his hands dirty so we haven't got the dirt on him that we do on their soldiers and dealers."

"Soldiers?"

"Aren't we the inquisitive one, today? Think of Soldiers as the First-Response Teams in your Homicide Unit. They're usually the newest recruits and they get all the heavy, useless lifting done so the real brains of the operation can get down to doing the work they're supposed to." Harry nodded, zooming in on the faces of all the men and snapping pictures of each.

Once done, he lowered his camera. "So, if Andre is the Second, who's the First?"

"No one knows," Dennis answers, "We think he might be a close friend of Andre's, a mentor, maybe. They say that Andre gets cellphone calls from the top-dog, but you know how wary the Ministry can be of Muggle Technology, they don't want us interfering with any sort of tracking or tapping spell, because it could create 'unintended consequences' and they certainly won't let us use a wire-tap, because that would mean getting help from either the Muggle Merseyside Police or MI5, who aren't supposed to know about this place."

Seamus nods. "So we're basically stuck between a rock and a hard place with that one. The only way we'll ever find out who the leader of this spot is, is if he comes down to the Irola Towers, but just like the Chiefs at every other hotspot, he knows to keep his instructions short, and out of the way of any watchful eyes."

"And the two Russians that gave us the pat-down?"

"Radomir Glebov and Aleksandr Telyatnikov," Seamus said, having a little trouble with pronouncing the names, "don't worry about them. They're just hired muscle. The dealers call them Bigs and Little."

"Yeah, big on muscles, little on the brains," Dennis snorted.

"That's working hypothesis, anyway," Seamus continued with a little grin.

Harry continued to scope out the area with the camera. A couple of reedy-looking fellows wandered from one edge of the courtyard to the other. Some children played tag and hide-and-seek around a small path of trees, leaving one to count while the others rushed toward the interior of the project towers. Mothers and fathers sat on stoops, watching there children, and Harry was, for a moment, taken aback by the candidness of the scene: life in the projects-families growing, literally, around drug dealers. The dealers were content to converse amongst themselves and the families certainly kept to themselves.

Everyone had a partner, from the roaming fiends at the far edge of the square, their backs against the wall, waiting for the opportune moment to buy, to the young, poor, but totally in love couple sitting on a stoop directly below Harry's window, the woman nursing a baby-bump. All of them had someone, except one. Harry cycled the camera to one man in combat robes, sitting on the stoop of a project terrace to the left of tower that the Aurors occupied. He stared off into the distance, appearing to watch nothing and everything at the same time.

"What about that one, there? The one in the combat robes. He seems a bit out of place."

Dennis nodded. "Good eye, DCI. He looks out of place because he _is_ out of place. That man's an enforcer. Hired by who we believe heads up the crew: Damian Shankly."

"Shankly?" Harry asked. "Like the-"

"You wouldn't believe how many people ask us that. No, he's _not_ related to Bill Shankly," Seamus chortled, "but back to the one who looks ready to take on trolls: we're not entirely sure who he is, but preliminary snooping from Dean leads us to believe that is Nicholas D'Arcy." Harry's eyes widened as he turned to zoom in on the face. Blond, masculine, with a scruffy beard, gaunt cheeks, and sallow skin, the man certainly bore resemblance to the Nicholas D'Arcy he had seen in pictures.

"Nicholas D'Arcy? What would he be doing across the Dover?" Harry questioned, voice barely above a whisper.

"So you know who he is? Then can you explain why he gets everyone's knickers in a twist? All Dean would tell us is that he's got more bodies on him than a Siberian cemetery."

Harry chuckled grimly. "And he does. Nicholas D'Arcy was a pretty well-known French Enforcer before the Second War. And by Enforcer, I mean a practical mercenary. His lack of allegiance to the French State brought him many enemies. There are rumors that he helped Russian turncoats train al-Qaeda operatives into attacking America to further sour U.S.-European Relationships and bringing a halt to the AEL-TA talks. Last I heard of him, he was in South America, helping out a group of Neo-Sandinistas who wanted to retake Nicaragua. If that _is_ him, one has to wonder why he's helping out drug runners in Liverpool." Harry snapped a quick picture.

"Shite," Seamus breathed, "we've got a bleedin' terrorist here."

"Unfortunately, we don't _know_ that," Harry replied, "there's nothing to tie him to any of the crimes. Nobody's willing to do the work in the Anti-Terrorist Section, so we haven't got so much as a single piece of hard evidence on him. Good policework is hard to do, even harder when everyone in the department's got their own agenda."

"And you don't?" Dennis asked, looking and perhaps feeling a bit cheeky.

"I don't need my own agenda," Harry snorted, "I've got enough influence already. But, too much of the politicking goes on behind closed doors, and the Magical Law Enforcement is as corrupt as the day is long in the summer. Stark's a good man. But the DMLE Director and the Deputy of Operations... they probably don't even know the meaning of Law Enforcement. No offense, Dennis."

"None taken," the blond responds, "I work for the bastard and don't like him. You know, it's a shame about Director Bones, she was much better than Erikson. Tweak the stats, so that there were less murders than we remember... that's how that one became Director."

"Well," Seamus interrupted, "If we're about done commiserating on the sad state of London and its corruption, you two would do well to realize that you, Dennis, were transferred for a reason and you, Harry, were exiled for a reason."

"And what's that?" Harry snarked.

"To stop worrying about bleedin' London. You're Midlands Boys now! And the question you should be asking yourself is not what D'Arcy's done before, but what he's planning by working here and now."

That suggestion only served to put Harry ill-at-ease. A known Enforcer, who had possible connections to terrorist attacks that led to the souring of wizarding relationships between the Eastern and Western Blocs, was sitting across a project courtyard from Harry, a DCI with the English Auror Corps and a sworn enemy.

In Liverpool.

Where The Circus was located.

Where Aleister Bulstrom had told Harry dark forces were gathering.

Something told Harry this case would not be a blow-off.

"Bloody hell," he muttered to himself, snapping another picture of the morose blond-haired man across the way.

* * *

A/N: Short notes. Not much to say other than that I've introduced a few of the dealers, all of whom will take on lives of their own after this chapter. However, next chapter deals with Xenophilius' death with the all the 'Golden Trio' in one scene at the same time- the St. Mungo's Autopsy room. Also, Harry's next meeting with Control comes next chapter.

Chapter Notes:

Triphop is a genre of music stemming from hip-hop, electronica, and rock influences. It started in the late '80's in Bristol, where later, the genre rose to fame through Massive Attack's debut album 'Blue Lines', released in 1992.

_No Exit _is an existentialist play by Jean-Paul Sartré; _Waiting for Godot_ is an absurdist play by Samuel Beckett.

Despite that JKR seems to love doing so, I will not be translating accents onto the page. Reading any line spoken by Fleur in the original series was just an eyesore so I refuse to do the same.

Hermione takes a potion in this chapter. It becomes important later. No, she is not a drug addict (I've already got that covered with Harry).

Bracelets- A slang term for handcuffs. Though I think it's American slang, it still made it into the chapter.

I'm not sure if citizenship has anything to with entering Hogwarts, but my interpretation of JKR's world contains a lot of wizards, so, naturally, there'll be a lot of wizards who never have been to Hogwarts. Which explains the dilapidated state of most places outside the London Metropolitan area.

A big thank you goes out to all who reviewed last chapter and before that! You people are the best! And to all other readers, I hope I've kept you entertained for a few minutes, so entertain me a few lines for review!

Thanks again,  
Geist.

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	6. Persephone

Disclaimer: All things Harry Potter belong to JKR.

Summary: Some good, ol'fashioned bonding time for the trio-over a cadaver; Helene and Harry share a strange but surprisingly familial moment; Granath berates Harry, and Harry speaks to Control, who tells him of the testing required for entrance into The Circus.

* * *

The King of Limbs

Part 2

"You burn things and smile while they collapse."  
- DSI William Granath

IV: Persephone

* * *

_September 2nd, 2002. 7:33 PM  
St. Mungo's Hospital - Morgue, London, UK_

After his eventful first trip to the Irola Towers Courtyard, a place Harry felt he would no doubt be spending much more time at over the next few months, Harry found himself apparating to the safest designated apparition point in London nearest St. Mungo's and walked a few blocks, where he stopped at the edge of the crosswalk, cars gliding forth in front of him, but he paid no mind. Harry smiled at his reflection in the dingy glass of 'Purges and Dowse, Ltd', finding the warped image of himself morbidly fascinating.

Once the traffic lights turned color and allowed Harry to pass, he strode to the window and stared further at his reflection. He looked darker, gaunter in appearance than Harry remembered, and the world itself seemed to be a much murkier gray than the rapidly darkening sky above him showed.

A darker Harry, he mused idly, letting his thoughts take him wherever they wished. A twisted version of himself. But as the passing fancy of staring at his distorted image in the glass faded, Harry walked through the window of the display box and into the waiting lobby of St. Mungo's.

But Harry's mind was far away, with Nicholas D'Arcy, a possible terrorist in the UK. Furthermore, he couldn't arrest D'Arcy, he couldn't tell Granath, because that could endanger the Agilian Case, and he couldn't tell Ron or Hermione, because it would eventually make its way back to Granath.

It was quite the conundrum Harry found himself in.

It didn't take long for Harry to find the morgue, as he had been there many times since becoming and Auror, and even before that, the one night when he saw the face of every person that died at the Battle of Hogwarts. Every face that he forced himself to look at. So he walked down the same hallways, but at a far more leisurely pace than the frantic searching of the night after The Battle. Perhaps it was the leftover adrenaline from his final fight with his nemesis, or his need for closure, but Harry knew he was much more motivated that night than this night. He smiled wryly at that. While the elder Lovegood had become a friend of the trio, only Ron would truly be devastated by the man's sudden passing; Harry only talked to him once every blue moon, and Hermione rarely spoke with the man at all. But Ron somehow managed to have long discussions and debates with Xenophilius, which often times led to Harry questioning Ron's sanity privately, and Hermione to question quite publicly.

_Room 612D._

That was the room Hermione said the body lay in, undisturbed. The door was made of a strange, metallic material, most likely created to help keep the coolness inside the room. Taking a steeling breath, Harry pushed the door open to find Ron sitting in a summoned chair, looking rather contemplative as he stared at the ground whilst Hermione bustled around a body on the table, a grim and determined look on her face as she checked over every part of the body. Ron looked up at Harry, as if surprised by the noise the emanating from the door opening. His eyes fell upon the dark-haired wizard in a manner of greeting, before he renewed his introspective gaze at the cold tile floor.

Harry turned to the body. Tall, with stringy, silvery-blond hair, and a face that subtly reminded Harry of Luna's, at first glance this couldn't be anyone other than Xenophilius Lovegood.

"Hello, Harry," Hermione said, looking too tired to muster up anything more.

Harry gave her a half-hearted smile. "Hi. You off, too?" Hermione nodded at his question:

"Just got off thirty minutes ago. Ministry Autopsy is scheduled for tomorrow morning, I'm just taking a preliminary look."

"Anything?"

"Besides that we've determined that he died by use of the Killing Curse? No." Hermione replied. Harry put a hand to his chin, standing to the side as Hermione worked her magic. She rolled up her sleeves and opened the corpse's mouth, looking inside.

In all this time, Ron had simply stared, apparently too shocked or too numbed by Lovegood's death:

"Let's talk about reasoning then," Harry mused aloud, "Ron, you knew Xenophilius the best out of us; do you think he had any enemies whom would be willing to kill him?" Ron's head snapped up, as if broken from a particularly profound thought. His face twisted into a mask of intense concentration as he spoke:

"Maybe hurt him, drag his name through the mud. I mean, he was the editor for a newspaper that was growing faster than The Daily Prophet, and it spawned a magazine, but kill him? I don't know why anyone would want to do that."

Harry turned towards the corpse once more, taking a pair of gloves from the edge of the table and snapping them on. He moved next to Hermione and opened Xenophilius' eyes and found the unmistakable green ring that signified the Killing Curse having been cast. "Has The Prophet ever been accused of knocking off its competition this way?" He questioned, pointing at the eyes.

Hermione paused. "No, Harry. You know that The Prophet is primarily passive-aggressive in nature. They would be much more content dragging an individual's name through the mud, and since there are no anti-monopoly laws in Magical Britain, spending enough money to buy out the competition when it comes to an institution.

"Besides," she continued, "They _write_ the news. That affords them a lot of power."

Harry smirked. "Because if they killed someone, you'd never hear about his death."

"Precisely."

Moving away from the body and Hermione, Harry summoned a chair and sat directly in front of Ron. "You visited him from time-to-time. What about behavior? Had he been saying anything strange or acting out of sorts, lately?"

Ron stopped, the white light glinting of his pale, orange-red hair. "I haven't seen him in a few weeks, but Luna's said he's been acting a bit loopy lately." Hermione snorted, perhaps wondering what gave Luna the right to deem anyone else loopy, but she was silenced when Harry and Ron both glared at her.

"Loopy how? Loopy as in he was saying something? Or loopy as in he was being his normal self?"

"He kept on about something strange, some word. Kept repeating it, she said." Ron rambled, "Something about a... a Percyphone?" Hermione raised a questioning eyebrow; Harry stared at his friend for a long time:

"What the _fuck_ does that mean?"

There was an uncomfortable rustling noise as Ron shifted in his chair. "Only, she didn't pronounce it like that. Luna said something, but I wasn't listening... oh, Merlin's ba-"

"Ronald!" Hermione shrieked, scandalized.

"Hey, you don't get mad when Harry swears!" Ron shouted.

"What the fuck did I do?" Harry questioned defensively, unaware that he swore once more.

"Because I have no right to tell Harry what to do!" Retorted Hermione, ignoring Harry's protestations.

Ron stood up. "And _you_ have a right to tell _me_ what to do?"

"What? Of co-" Hermione began but was cut off:

"Guys, guys! Do we _have_ to get into this now?" Harry interrogated exasperatedly. Hermione clamped her mouth shut, realizing she was not being helpful and Ron looked like he had just been punched in the stomach.

"Sorry," he sheepishly replied, sitting back down. "It was something like percyphony, maybe."

Instantly, Hermione's eyes brightened with recognition. "Persephone?" She asked, pronouncing it slowly to Ron, as a teacher would an exceptionally slow child:

"Yes! That's it!" Ron exclaimed.

Harry looked from Ron to Hermione. "The Greek Goddess?" He asked; Hermione smiled brightly at him, as if a congratulations were on the tip of her tongues, but seeing as how they were all adults by now, it she must have decided it would be unseemly to felicitate Harry on his studies, and chose, instead, to explain what she knew:

"Persephone," she began, "was the daughter of Zeus and Demeter. According to the myth, she was originally a Vegetation Goddess, until she was tricked into becoming Hades wife, whereupon she became queen of the underworld."

Harry nodded attentively, while Ron could only watch on, dumbfounded.

"So what does that have to do with Xenophilius' death?" Harry questioned, more to himself than his friends.

Hermione shrugged. "I'm not sure."

Harry grit his teeth, turning back to Ron. "Anything else Luna said he did?"

"There was one more thing he said."

"And what was that?"

"He'd keep on ranting about a circus."

Harry's blood ran cold. A circus. _The _Circus. He had lived far too long and through far too much to believe in coincidences. God did not play with dice and neither did Harry. The last man who learned about The Circus, who wasn't supposed to know, ended up with half his face blasted off by a gun.

"Wh-what did you say?" Harry questioned, unable to keep the astonishment out of his voice.

Ron looked at Harry strangely; Hermione stopped working, the was a slight pinging noise as she placed some metal instrument on the equally metallic observation table. Harry silently cursed himself, he had let himself be too surprised. He didn't stutter. Ever. Not since Voldemort died. He was never caught off-guard, so when he slipped, they must have noticed.

But Ron continued as if Harry had only misheard. "I said: he said something about a circus. Don't know what tigers jumping through flaming rings have to do with anything, so you'll have to ask Luna for clarification on that one."

Harry remained silent. Then, he scoffed. "Great. Queen of the Underworld, and the Ringling Brothers. Smashing clues there."

Hermione looked at Harry pointedly, and then returned to her work. Harry got up and surveyed the body. Killed by the Killing Curse, but the rest was such a mystery. No magical traces, no wand to speak of, so it was unlikely that this death was a suicide, and now The Circus was involved. And Harry did not even want to think of what Persephone might mean now that The Circus had been dropped into the conversation. If not for that, Harry would have taken Xenophilius' words as the ramblings of a madman, as he oft proved he was, but now, there was a new player in this game, and it had suddenly become a whole new animal. He may have scoffed bravely, but he certainly didn't feel that way, and couldn't help but feel The Circus was somehow involved in this.

Perhaps it would be another thing for Harry to bring up in his next meeting with Control.

As for Persephone, there was always one person Harry could trust to know things he did not. "I've got to head out," he said quickly.

"You've barely been here for ten minutes," Ron began, "Where're you going now, mate?"

"Bristol," Harry replied, sweeping towards the door.

Ron smirked. "Oh, off to see the _pretty_, then?"

"Who?"

"Miss de Beauvoir. I mean, yes, she's a little bit older than you, but you two aren't fooling anyone. Besides, she's pretty. And smart. I'm happy for you," he gave Harry a wolfish grin. Hermione, off to the side, frowned at Harry, though for what, he hadn't a clue.

Harry smiled sweetly in response to his ginger partner. "Helene? You know she was married once. Had a husband and two children. Now, we aren't sure if she _actually_ did it, but we found her one day, covered in the blood of her husband and children, all of them were chopped up by a Quartering Curse and stacked up in the kitchen in a pile of limbs. I think it would be hazardous to my health to be shagging that headcase."

Ron blanched and Hermione stared open-mouthed as Harry swept out of the morgue.

"Bloody hell," Ron remarked after a long time, his face the epitome of surprise, "Is he serious?"

Hermione had a worried look on her face as she spoke the three words she hated most: "I don't know."

* * *

_2-9-2002 8:37 PM  
Black Fang Tavern, Magical District, Bristol, UK_

"Harry! To what do I owe the pleasure?" Helene asked coquettishly, rushing up to Harry to give the man a quick peck on either cheek. Though surprised by the woman's show of affection, Harry sat upon one of the chairs in her back room of the Tavern as if this were a normal meeting between the two.

"I've got a problem that I think you might be able to solve," Harry replied, crossing his legs.

Helene shot him an amused look. "That's the worst come-on ever."

"Stop being stupid," Harry drawled. "What do you know about 'Persephone'?"

"The Greek Goddess?"

Harry drew back. Shit. If Helene didn't see anything strange about 'Persephone' other than that she was a Greek Goddess, then nothing short of upper-level Ministry clearance could help him.

"No, not the goddess," Harry replied. "Do you remember Xenophilius Lovegood?"

Helene nodded. "Yes, he's the father of that very strange friend of yours. What's her name again? Luna?"

"Yes," he said, "Luna. Xenophilius was found dead in his home yesterday, and Ron told me-"

"How is Ron?" Helene questioned, smiling. Harry raised an eyebrow:

"He's fine, he's at St. Mungo's with Hermione right now, working on the cadaver of the man I came here to talk to you about-"

"Ooh, secret morgue tryst? Your friends must be feeling _exceptionally _randy today," the auburn-haired witch grinned, at which Harry shot her a withering glare, trying to keep himself from shuddering:

"Please don't talk about my friends like that," he kindly insisted.

Helene pouted, which Harry found rather strange, given she was into her thirties and should have outgrown the 'pouting phase' by now. "Oh, come on Henry, don't be jealous of them. You can find true love in the strangest places!"

"Yes, like in a pile of arms next to your icebox?" Harry shot icily. If Helene had been offended by Harry's insinuation that she slaughtered her family, she did not show it. In fact, she seemed to smile as a strange sort of comprehension dawned upon her. In order to placate the bubbly killer before she could say something stupid while he was off-guard, Harry questioned:

"What insufferably stupid idea has gone to your head now?"

Helene waggled her eyebrows. "You _are_ jealous of them."

"Focus, will you?"

Helene's soft, trilling laugh filled the room. "You _are_! The great Harry Potter is jealous of his friends' relationship? Never took you to be a hopeless romantic, Potter."

"I'm not," Harry shot, in hindsight, perhaps a little too defensively.

The metamorphmagus stopped short. "No," she breathed, looking into his eyes, "You're jealous of _one_ of them. How quaint."

Harry ignored her. "Now. Xenophilius, before he died, went ranting and raving about something called 'Persephone', do you know anything about it?"

"No, no I don't," Helene replied, smiling, "but I can take a look into it. No guarantees though, if I haven't already heard of it, it probably isn't of major importance."

"No, of course not, only that a man was found repeating it like a mantra a week ago and now he's all cadaverous in the same morgue examination room with my 'randy' friends," Harry shot snidely.

Helene stood up and walked over to Harry. She stopped just above him, smiling down on the raven-haired DCI. Harry looked up at the woman strangely, and nearly recoiled when she placed a calming hand on his shoulder. Realizing, however, that the blue-eyed witch had no intent to harm him, Harry relaxed into the touch.

"I'm sorry you can't have what they have."

She was obviously referring to Hermione and Ron.

Harry snorted. "I don't want what they have. It would be a lie."

"No, it would only be a lie because you'd make it a lie," Helene retorted, still wearing a maternal smile that made Harry's blood run cold and, at the same time, wish he could hug her, "You want it. It looks peaceful, happy, content. You simply cannot understand it."

"What?"

"Love."

Harry snorted again. "Please, do give me more credit than _that_. I did, after all, fulfill a prophecy based completely on love."

Helene shook her head, knowing certain facets of the truth behind that final battle at Hogwarts. "Based off love, yes, but what has it turned you into? Do you love? No."

She bent over and kissed his forehead lightly:

"The sorrow does no one any good."

And then she turned and swept away back under the beaded curtain that housed her quarters, leaving a dumbfounded Harry behind.

* * *

_September 4th, 2002, 9:42 AM  
Harry Potter's Residence, 221A Sir Thomas Street, Liverpool, UK_

The next two days passed by quickly for Harry. Mostly it was filled with late-night stake outs and taking pictures, which was apparently all Narcos seemed to do, but today was Harry's first day off, his first bit of reprieve from the Liverpudlian drug trade. He had stayed away from Helene, content only to meet with the woman when she said she had something. Nothing changed with Xenophilius, other than that it was a murder and Ron had gotten saddled with it. Harry looked over the case, and the only link was that a Killing Curse was cast, no other evidence, nothing.

Needless to say; Harry did not envy his former partner at that moment.

Harry bustled about to his room, where the parchment Control had left in his home became a portkey over an hour earlier, but Harry was not expected until eleven o'clock. He spent his time getting ready, languidly moving from bed to dresser to find a pair of dark jeans, a gray button-down shirt, a matching silver and black striped tie, and loafers. Over all of this, Harry wore his waxed-cotton coat.

"Harry Potter!" Came a loud, booming voice from the first floor of his house, a voice Harry recognized to be Granath's. Harry broke out in a light jog down the stairs to find the likeness of his mentor in the flames of the fire, now a brilliant green color, rather than the normal golden-red.

"A floo-call?" Harry asked, stooping low and close to the fire, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I was calling to see how you're getting along at the NIM," the elder man replied.

Harry chuckled. "Well enough, I guess. There's a lot to do here, even if it's mostly taking pictures and hiding in buildings, watching dealers all night." Granath took on a disbelieving tone:

"Tell me you're _not_ enjoying that. It's a waste of your talent."

Harry smirked, intent on ribbing his superior a little. "Hey, it's a break from the SCU and all that 'rules' stuff that no one likes."

"Not liking rules doesn't even begin to describe it, Potter," Granath said, suddenly incensed, "More like willfully urinating on them. You're a good Auror, and you've got a good mind, but _Merlin_, why do you have to be so _arrogant_? Is there no one else to trust, you can't alert command to your presence? We thought you might be dead for an entire day. Both Weasleys shut down when they thought you bit it, and even Hermione was distraught. And I have _never_ seen that woman anything but composed."

"Yes, yes, I'm an idiot, what else is new?" Harry dismissed the elder man, who grit his teeth:

"Don't joke about this, Harry," Granath spat. "You know, I was just starting out when I met your father. Your mother, she was an Auror, too, though I was told she was a potions' genius, and she was smart. She was kind. She knew exactly what she was doing and how to do it right. Your father, on the other hand, arrogant, brash, flaunted his knowledge in front of command, didn't even show his boss any respect-"

"-_Respect_, _respect_," Harry mocked, "Granath, you were the last person I expected to shovel this chain-of-command propaganda bullshit."

"Shut up! Your father, no doubt, was a better Auror than your mother, she freely admitted it to me, but in the end, she was DSI, and he was stuck as a DI. And you may have your mother's sheer brain power, but the way you think through things, and the way you act, you _are_ your father's son. Both you and he are pyromaniacs. You burn things and smile while they collapse.

"I tried my best with you, to make you a good Auror that does things the _right_ way, but no, you can't do it. You want to do it alone, by yourself, because you have to, to feed your ego, you bloody narcissist!"

Harry's eyes flashed. "If you have a problem with me, DSI, take it up with my boss; DSI_ Rodgers_. Until then, I think you should disconnect this call. It bores me."

"No, you listen-" Granath was cut off as Harry hoisted himself up from the ground and left the room. Harry moved to the kitchen, reigning in his anger at the man as he pulled open the icebox, grabbed a waterbottle, wrenched off the cap, and attacked it as if he were trying to draw blood from stone. From what he could hear, it appeared as if Granath was trying to calm himself down as well.

"Harry," came his voice. "Harry, if you're still listening, I didn't mean to get angry at you. And I didn't mean to call you an arrogant narcissist only trying to feed your ego."

"Hey, truth hurts sometimes," Harry replied, returning to the drawing room with a forced grin.

"Don't get cute," Granath shot snidely. "When you're back in London in six months, I'm begging you, use some caution. You're practically my protégé and I hate yelling at you. And that just makes me angry at you because you should know better than that."

Harry stared down at his feet.

"Your dad had the capability of becoming something great. If he were alive today and just a smidgen less brash, he could have been Minister. But, instead, he would have never gotten it, and would end up languishing as a subordinate to his wife because he was showy, and loud, and arrogant. Or, perhaps, even worse, he may have ended up without a job. And your mother's side of the family has tempered you a little, Harry, but know this: James was still your father. And unless you start playing by the rules, your career will take a beating much worse than your father could have ever experienced."

"Okay," Harry said, "I'll be more careful."

"And?"

"And I'll keep you in the loop."

"Good," Granath said, "I'll be at the NIM in a few days to check on you. Try not to get yourself in too much trouble before then?"

Harry laughed. "Alright, alright."

With that, the flame shut off and Harry was left alone to finish preparing to go to The Circus HQ. Once ready, he gathered the parchment and felt himself being sucked into it and away into the cloudless sky.

And then, he was in that lobby once more, the glassy sheen surrounding him and looking even more spectacular in the daylight than it did at nighttime.

"Welcome back, Mr. Smiley," the receptionist-what was the name Gerrard called her again?-greeted. Harry pauses for a split second, before the name comes back to him:

"Thank you, Exeter," He responded conversationally, and the receptionist beamed, as if she were genuinely surprised Harry had remembered her name. "How are you this morning?"

"Very fine, thank you, Smiley," she grinned, "Control would like to see you whenever you are ready."

"I suppose I'm ready now, then."

Exeter smiled, typing something onto a computer. "Very well. You may go, Mr. Smiley."

Harry nodded, moving away from the woman's desk towards the glass elevators, where one opened for him. He stepped in and punched the '7' button. In a few moments, he was in the same elliptical hallway surrounding the large globe, with a sheer vertical drop to the atrium below. Harry avoided looking down and stepped to the doorway where he had first met Control. As he was about to knock, the large doors opened for him, revealing Control's futuristic office once more.

Control sat in his high-backed chair, smiling benignly at Harry from underneath his hood. "Mr. Smiley! I've been waiting to speak with you for ages now! It's been too long."

"It's been about a week," Harry deadpanned, causing the hooded man to chuckle:

"Yes, too long, indeed, for all the questions you must have!" He paused. "You _do_ have questions, do you not?"

"One."

"Yes?"

"What is 'Persephone'?"

Control stiffened. "I must admit..." He started, regaining his bearings, "I had not expected you to start with _that_ question."

Harry merely shrugged.

"This wouldn't have anything to do with Xenophilius Lovegood, would it?"

"It might."

Control heaved a sigh. "Do not worry about Xenophilius Lovegood, he is not our kill. And we are looking into his murder."

"Looking into it? Why?" Harry asked the obvious, wanting to hear the word from the man's mouth himself.

"Well, isn't it obvious?" Control questioned lightly, "Lovegood was one of us!"

Harry didn't have much to say to that. He had slightly suspected that Xenophilius wasn't exactly a normal 'citizen'. There could only be two options, Xenophilius was either a member of The Circus, and broadcasting to any members of the Auror Department in the paramilitary group, telling them something about how he died, or he was an unlucky sod who found out about The Circus at the wrong time. Truthfully, however, Harry thought it was the latter. But the logic in allowing Lovegood into the metaphorical 'fold', so to speak, was sound:

"Right, a newspaper editor would be nice to have on the same team, wouldn't he?" Harry remarked, smiling.

Control nodded. "Good thinking, Harry. I knew you didn't become an Auror for nothing, after all."

"So, then, I'm assuming whatever 'Persephone' is, is the reason why Lovegood is dead, rather than you?" Harry questioned, and Control smirked:

"Believe me," he quipped, "we have bigger things to do than to kill Newspaper Editors. Hypothetically speaking, even if he knew about us, he wouldn't have an ounce of proof to back it up with, do you understand?"

"Yes, I believe so."

"As for Persephone, even we don't know what it is. All we know is that it is believed to be the first outbreak of disease in centuries that managed to kill thousands of Magicals. Do you remember the Coventry Incident in 1981?" Harry quirked an eyebrow, indicating he did not know. "Mareville, the now-abandoned wizarding town forty kilometers from Coventry, experienced a death toll of about 1,500 Magicals in 1981. The Ministry claimed terrorists had released a 'supervirus' from the Muggle Research Facility a stone's throw away.

"Any other information was scant. The Prophet barely covered the story. In fact, Lovegood was to use his paper contacts to find out exactly _what_ Persephone was, though we're inclined to believe it is the name of the virus."

"And why were you looking into this?"

"That's for me to know," Control drawled. Harry grit his teeth; he had never liked being held in the dark even during the days of the war, but he could see the reasoning behind Control not telling him the full truth. He was not a full-fledged member of The Circus, so Control had given Harry enough information to whet his appetite without disclosing any vital information.

"I see. But how can I know that Lovegood was part of the 'fold', and not someone you're lying about?"

Control's grin turned predatory. "You don't."

"Would you care to shed light on some proof?"

"No."

Curiosity now sparked, Harry continued to question. "And why not?"

"You now work for us, don't you? Some might call us black ops, or spies, or the Magical MI6. And in some ways, we share something in common with them: we exist in a state of fear."

"A state of fear," Harry repeated.

"Think about the work," Control explained, "this entire job is based off the concept of knowledge. Or rather, the fluid nature of it: What is true today may not be true tomorrow, yes? Thus, nothing in this line of work is totally and completely true. As an Auror, you work with clues, every crime has someone who perpetrated it, and you can get as close to truth as possible. With the invention of Veritaserum, you can get even closer to the truth. Eventually, you'll have it: who did it, when, and sometimes even _why_ they did it. And that remains constant; the reasoning behind a murder does not change once the murder has been done with.

"You do not have such luxuries with intelligence. You work off far more than incomplete knowledge, you work with a changing political scale. Germany's political policy today is not the one they will have next year. The U.K. may be chummy with America now, but in two years, that could change completely. The constantly changing nature of what you know breeds uncertainty. And uncertainty will alienate you from your friends, and your family, if you had any family to speak of. The alienation will ultimately bring fear with it. What could happen the next moment, how everything can change in a split second: one minute you're at the park playing with your kids; the next, Russian missiles are screaming, speeding their way towards you."

Harry let out a hollow laugh, though he did not find Control's words particularly funny.

"And you need to overcome that fear of uncertainty if you are ever going to be successful at this."

"What?"

"I need to test you. To see where you'll fit into our little merry band of men."

* * *

**A/N: **Another one down. Slow start I know, but I've got Parts 2 and 3 mapped out, and the story _will_ pick up, I promise. If you visit my profile page, you'll see all the chapter names for those parts. There are six parts in total, however.

Chapter Notes:

Harry's introspection outside of 'Purges and Dowse' mimics Hermione's actions last chapter.

Harry and Hermione talk about how The Prophet is 'passive-aggressive' and engages in character assassination. And, that if they ever needed to hide something for someone, it could be done easily, considering the Magical World's dependence on print media. This theme will become important, particularly in Part 3.

"What the fuck did I do?" - If the first quote in the first chapter ("You start to tell the story...") didn't tell you who the inspiration for this Harry mostly went to, this should have. Then again, I don't know how many HP fans have seen The Wire.

Once again, the content of Helene's character is brought up. What's more troubling, is that this chapter displays that she has a maternal instinct or, at the very least, sisterly affection towards Harry. Which could be problematic, given what happened to Helene's first family. Then again, that brings the question up: did she murder her husband and children? She's a clever, but not particularly powerful witch. And while Granath believes so, that fact keeps Harry in doubt.

Harry is a common diminutive of Henry or Harold. Since Helene is French, she uses Henry, since the name is French.

Helene says Harry is jealous of _one _of his best friends. The easiest answer is that he's jealous of Ron because he has Hermione. That would be wrong. Harry doesn't feel that way about Hermione just yet. And while the reasons for it will become more clear next chapter, Harry is jealous of Hermione, not Ron. And no, he's not in love with Ron, either.

James was brash, arrogant, flaunted his abilities in front of everyone, had no respect for chain of command, and, as a result, was confined to the same position until his death. Harry is brash, arrogant, flaunts his abilities in front of everyone, and has no respect for chain of command. Obvious symbolic connection? Nah...

File that Coventry shenanigans away for storage. It will be coming back.

Next Chapter will be called 'The Joy'. I think it's sufficiently cryptic, don't you?

As always, I hope you enjoyed and be sure to leave a review! I know you can do it!  
Geist.

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V


	7. The Joy

Disclaimer: All things Harry Potter belong to JKR. All things Metal Gear belong to Hideo Kojima and Konami.

Summary: Harry's test. Deeply introspective chapter; character development abound. Of course, many of the scenes in Harry's flashbacks aren't in the original series, but I've sort of placed these as certain times within the frame of the original series where we can see Harry's state of mind. Furthermore, be aware that the second half or so of the chapter takes place in Harry's mind.

* * *

The King of Limbs

Part 2

"I've always been a bitter old man in spirit."  
- Harry Potter

V: The Joy

* * *

_The first thing he remembered was darkness. And a sense of falling. He did not know if it was the heat of the day that caused him to hallucinate so, or the darkness that surrounded him, or the claustrophobic locked-in feeling of it all._

_All he knew was that he was falling and it was dark and he was scared._

_And so he screamed. He screamed and wailed and cried, but that feeling, that feeling that the ground was rushing up to meet him did not leave. He did not know what do. He was simply a child. So he cried._

_It was hot and cramped and stuffy and... and he could hear voices outside the great. Voices telling him to shut up, telling him to quit whining. And suddenly, everything snapped into place and he became defiant. He would not let the fear overcome him. He would not be scared. There was no shame in being scared, but there was honor in leaving it behind._

_So he stopped wailing. He became quiet. And his body shook and his tongue was parched and his stomach howled, but he would not make a sound. He knew he would die in this place. But that did not frighten him. And it was a strange realization to come to for a child. He would die here. But he would not be beaten._

_He would die without fear of it._

_So he resigned himself to that sense of falling, that the ground was closer every second. And this time, he found it wonderful._

* * *

"Your childhood is... frightening."

And suddenly, as if the entire world had shifted about him, Harry returned to the present. Nothing had changed, he was no longer five years-old. He was a grown man, sitting on stone-tile floor of a darkened room. Alongside the edges of the room were four torches in each corner with a blue ball of flame searing the air atop the pillars. They were said to focus mental energy, and told Harry that this place was filled with strong magic. Directly in front of him sat a short figure draped in heavy white shawls, gold embroidered stitching along the hem of the fabric. It was a woman, who looked fairly young, but spoke with the air of an aged, wizened woman.

Harry just nodded dumbly at her observation.

A strange twist of fate must have brought him to this idiotic place. Control said he had to _test_ Harry, and Harry, being the idiot he was, decided that he would take the test head-on. And so he found himself here. His mind being raped by a woman dressed in gypsy rags.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid_, Harry thought for what must have been the fifteenth time in the last half-hour. Gryffindorian courage screwed him again, Harry mused to himself.

"No five year-old should learn not to fear death."

Harry looked up, and saw the white-draped figure smiling kindly at him, and he shook his head. "It isn't too much trouble. My family may have hated me, but I've taken my childhood and used it to make me stronger."

A soft, trilling laugh erupted from the woman, which would have looked rather frightening to many people, but Harry pushed any thoughts of fear away. "But I am here to expose your weakness, not show your strengths," she replied at length. "People do not improve by practicing what they have already mastered. Maintain, maybe, but never improve. One only improves by discovering their weaknesses."

Harry snorted.

"Do you not believe me?" The woman asked.

"No, I do."

"Then, what is it that you fear? What is it that frightens you most?"

"Boggarts turn into Dementors," Harry supplied helpfully, shifting into a lotus-flower position on the floor, but he only received a shake of the head from the witch.

"Not _things_ that you fear. Not beings. I put no stock in beings or things. Ideas, irrational fears, those are more indicative of who you are. What truly frightens you?"

"What else is there to be afraid of?" Harry questioned curiously, "Being afraid of ideas is like... like being afraid of a shadow. You only need be afraid of things that can hurt you."

"And can't an idea harm you?"

"No, that's absurd. They're thoughts."

"A cynic, hmm?" The woman licked her lips and gave Harry a triumphant smirk. "Then I shall teach you otherwise." Harry knew what she was about to do, and jammed up his Occlumency defenses, but against the woman's attack, Harry's defenses held up poorly-constructed levees against a tsunami. This onslaught was perhaps the most powerful Harry had ever experienced, outstripping Snape's, Dumbledore's, and even Voldemort's by miles. He was powerless to defend.

"How about love? That is an idea, an emotion, is it not?" The mind-reading witch smirked as Harry drowned in his own half-forgotten memories.

* * *

_"Move aside, girl, move aside!"_

_"Not Harry, please not him!"_

_He was an infant, staring down the cold, gray face, with his lipless sneer, and noseless countenance, accentuated with his blood-red, catlike eyes. His mother-was she his mother?-cried and begged and was shot down by a jet of green light. But he did not cry, or wail, he merely looked upon the intruder with barely concealed curiosity. Both of them stared each other down, neither showing any emotion other than slight, academic interest in one another._

_Both watched for the other's first move. He cocked his head to the side, and the terrifying visage standing at the base of the crib moved his arm back, a strange little rod held between his curled fingers, as he watched the child._

_He was afraid._

_Soon, both began to tire of the staring contest, and the ugly one raised his arm, pointed the stick at him, and then, came a green flash of light._

_But the scene shifted._

_He was eleven, watching a Goliath of a mountain troll lumbering toward a bushy-haired, bucktoothed girl, who stared at the advancing brute with the look of a deer caught in the headlights. He did something, he did not remember what. But he did remember the smoky apparition of the destroyed bathroom and the faint, lingering feeling of contentedness when a body pressed up against his. A hug, they called it.  
_

_Then he was twelve, looking down at the same girl, her hair just as untameable as it had been the year before. But rather than the pretty, vivacious expressions that usually dotted her face, he only saw a terrified, wide-eyed stare into nothing, only, perhaps, the ceiling above her hospital bed._

_And then, the feeling of fear returned. Would she wake up; was this a dream?_

_He looked down at the still figure before him. Unresponsive, as usual. There was no joy to be had this day._

* * *

"Do you fear the harming of others? Others that are close to you?"

"No," Harry responded, rather caustically.

The witch's mouth quirked upwards into a smile. "There is no use lying to me, sir," she chided, "I believe your friend once said you had a 'saving people-thing'." Harry grit his teeth. This woman was good. Annoyingly so.

"Do you love them?"

"Who?"

"Your mother? And the brown-haired one?"

Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "My mother and one of my best friends. What do you think?"

"Your girlfriend, the Weasley," The witch changed the topic suddenly, "she looked a lot like your mother. Very pretty. Do you not think it was misplaced attraction?" It took no leap of logic to understand what the woman was insinuating. "It is normal for boys whose mothers died at an extraordinarily young age to lust after the image of the lost maternal image."

Was she _trying_ to rile him up? It wouldn't work, if she was, Harry had learned to keep his emotions under control in the face of being insulted. "So? Perhaps I'm attracted to the same sort of woman my father was."

"But Miss Weasley is not the same sort of woman. Your mother was, from eyewitness accounts, exceedingly intelligent, slightly bossy, and incredibly idealistic. That sounds more like your other friend, to me."

"My other friend?"

"The one with the hair. Miss Granger, I believe?" Harry squinted uncomprehendingly at the witch's words:

"So what you're saying," he replied bemusedly, "is that I began dating Ginny Weasley out of some sort of misplaced attraction towards my mother. Are you _trying_ to get me angry?"

"Yes," the woman replied, laughing that soft laugh again.

Harry smiled despite himself. "I don't think it quite that funny."

"I do," the witch deadpanned. "You simply lack a sense of humor."

"Well I'd hardly think telling a bloke he's got an Oedipus Complex would earn you very many chuckles," Harry joked, leaning back onto the floor and propping himself up on his forearms.

The witch huffed. "That's merely because you are all Neanderthals."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Magic and evolution don't mix," he replied, hoping to get a bit of understanding about the woman tasked with invading his mind. It appeared the witch knew what he was up to as well, and tolerated for the moment:

"Well," she answered, rather haughtily, "I am not some common peddler of card tricks and fancy stick-waving. All it takes is a little sight and one can find that they do mix quite well."

"But most of the magical world does believe in a god, or at least _some_ sort of afterlife."

"Finding that the two coincide does not necessarily mean I do not believe," she replied cryptically. "Do you?"

Harry smirked, remembering his encounter with the late Albus Dumbledore at King's Cross. "I've been forced to, I suppose. Events in my life have proven the fact beyond doubt."

"You sound disappointed."

"Somehow, I think I would be happier not knowing. Because then I wouldn't have to believe."

"And why is that?"

"If you didn't know, if you didn't believe, then you could blame all the problems of the world on mankind. And that leaves for some hope, because people can be changed. If God exists, and is unable to change things, then what hope do we have?"

"And if God chooses not to change things? For free will?"

"If you're willing, but unable to help, you're noble, and good. But a fool. If you are able, but unwilling, then you're..." he left the word hanging.

"Evil?" The witch questioned.

Harry shrugged. "It's not the best word, but it works."

"The topic of good and evil can always spark hours of debate," the witch sighed dramatically, "but, alas, debate is not my job. I will have to enter your mind again. What makes you afraid? Truly, deeply afraid?"

"I don't know."

The witch raised her hand, spreading her fingers outwards. "Let us find out, shall we?"

The torches at the corners of the room flashed an electric blue and rose high with the surge of magic, casting an alien, aquarium glow on both the witch and Harry as he felt another torrent of memories break through.

* * *

_He stared at the white marble tomb from across the lake. He was confused. Dumbledore may have withheld information from him, but the headmaster was his hope for the longest time. And now that the man who had so long been his idol was now nothing more than a broken corpse, he felt as if the writing was on the wall for him as well. It was only a matter of time before he was dead. Hermione and Ron had given Ginny and himself space as they talked of their relationship. He wanted to protect her, to keep her safe. So he broke off their whirlwind romance, and just like that, it was over. She did not need to love a dead man. Though it wasn't, really. He loved her. At least, he thought he did. There was something in Ginny's majestic brown eyes as she spoke:_

_"You're only happy when you're fighting him," she had said sadly._

_He spluttered and denied it, but the whole summer, that line haunted him. He had brought so many people into this personal war against Voldemort, all because of a selfish _need_ to be locked in constant struggle with him._

_When his rescue team had broken him out of Privet Drive and they were chased by Death Eaters, seven different Potters racing among the clouds, he wanted to say he was terrified. But the truth was that he found himself elated, and that only made the aftermath seem even worse to him._

_Then he was sitting alone, outside a tent. Ron was gone and Hermione in one of her bouts of Ron-induced depression. He was lost, he was scared, but, more important than anything else, he was _alive_. He could not believe how pleased he was to be able to say that. That despite everything, he, and by extension, Hermione, were still alive._

_An indescribable feeling of _joy_ pervaded him, something that lulled, ebbed and flowed beneath him, raising his spirits higher and higher. He never wanted the war to end, not if the simple act of_ living_ afforded him this much pleasure. Never, he never wanted it to end,__ until he saw Hermione's haggard and tear-stained face._

_And Ginny's words returned to him: "You're only happy when you're fighting him."_

_What had he done?_

_He had laughed and smiled about being alive, regardless of what it did to people around him. Ron was gone. His mere presence had driven a wedge between his two best friends, both of whom he thought loved each other. Yet Ron was gone and Hermione stayed with him. Selfish Harry. He who only wanted to fight Voldemort._

_He didn't know how to tell the inconsolable girl he was sorry. She would simply say he had nothing to be sorry for, and would refuse to carry on the conversation any longer. How does one apologize for completely destroying another person's life? She was alone, without her boyfriend, with an absolute tosser for a best friend, her parents likely did not even remember her name, and it was all because of him._

_All because of Harry-bloody-Potter._

_So, on one day, a few days later, when nothing of note happened, Harry tried to apologize. He tried to say something to console Hermione, but all he could do was place one hand on her shoulder and mumble something that was more revelatory to him than it was comforting to his friend:_

_"I'm the bad guy, now," he said, patting her shoulder. "I'm the bad guy, now."_

_Her heavy-lidded, cinnamon eyes trailed upwards to his own greens, an expression of patent confusion upon her face. For a long second, one that seemed like it took ages to pass, she looked as though she was about to say something, but he didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to hear the condemnation, or feel the righteous anger she would surely hurl at him._

_So he just shook his head, and smiled. And then he turned, and walked back to his area of the tent and sat on his cot, staring at his hands. Ginny's words rushed into the foreground of his mind and mingled with his own thoughts._

_You're only happy when you're fighting him..._

_I'm the bad guy now._

* * *

"How strange," the witch commented; Harry found himself back in the stone tile room with the glowing blue-flamed torches at the corners, "Why did you say that to Miss Granger?"

"Say what?" Harry questioned.

"'I'm the bad guy, now'?"

Harry sneered, more at his own behavior than the witch's. "Isn't it obvious? Look at how much others sacrificed for me, throwing themselves in their own special sort of hell to help me. Hermione gave up her family, her boyfriend, her peace and security for me. A man who, deep down, never wanted the war to end."

"Why?"

"Because I never felt more alive. It was this... _unbelievable_ feeling of _joy_. I suppose only other sociopaths could understand." Harry replied glumly, "I'd never felt so happy to be alive. It was the most wonderful feeling I'd felt in a long time."

"Until?"

Harry's lip curled at the thought of that day. "Until I saw Hermione, of course. I felt terrible after that."

"And so you told her that you were the bad guy. And she said _nothing_?"

"Oh, I'm sure she _thought_ of saying something but. Merlin, after some of the things I've told her, she must the I'm absolutely nutters, but... I guess it wasn't a time very conducive to psychotherapy," Harry blithely said, "So we never really talked about it. And Hermione's memory may be damn near photographic, but she probably doesn't remember me saying that. And it's better for all of us that way."

The witch leveled a look at Harry. "I disagree. Perhaps it is better for her, but not speaking does you no favors, child."

"I've found... better ways of dealing with the feeling. I don't need to talk; I need another case."

"And what do you gain out of that?" The witch asked, "Harry Potter is already a forgotten man. People do not remember you on the streets any longer, do they? So what do you hope to gain by catching all these dark wizards? Do you think that somehow, they'll bring Harry Potter back into the spotlight, because you've done something so great that they can't ignore you anymore?"

"No. I could care less about fame."

"Then you get _nothing_ out of this, boy. You spent all your time becoming an Auror, but let me tell you, a job does not a man make."

Harry shrugged and eyed the witch dubiously. "I don't think so. Cases are who I am."

"Your investigations end. And when you've locked up, you still have to look at yourself in the mirror in your empty house all by your lonely self." The witch allowed a brief smile to graze her lips. "And then what? What do you have then?"

"The next investigation," Harry responded, intent on being stubborn.

"And what of life?"

"What about it?"

The witch smiled. "You've seen it many times, boy. By yourself, you are a lost, wasteful excuse for a human being. And even as a good Auror, you are _still_ a lost, wasteful excuse for a human being, but you don't have to be. All you need to do is invest in the time where you don't waste your breath."

Harry lounged backwards, set into a contemplative mood by the witch's words. He felt, by degrees, insulted and very much wished to hex the woman until she was nothing more than a pile of ashes and a burnt white shawl, and also set oddly at ease by her words. As if he should listen to her.

"Is that what you fear? Life?"She asked suddenly.

"Fear? No. Dissatisfied by it? Yes."

The witch also leaned back. "Then find something that _will_ make life satisfying. It is clear you are close with Mister Weasley and Miss Granger; why don't you speak to them?"

"Because Ron could never understand my actions, and because... because Hermione could never understand my ideals. And... they're in love. I don't wish to be a burden."

The witch snorted. "Surely you can not be disheartened by the fact that your friend is dismayed by your ideals, or, more precisely, the lack thereof." She looked closer at Harry, no small feat, considering the darkness of the room, the place Control had called 'The Cloister'. "And it is not that you do not wish to be a burden, you are jealous."

That was the second time someone had outright stated Harry was jealous of his best friends, but even before he could open his mouth, the witch was already speaking:

"You are jealous of Mister Weasley, but not very. Miss Granger? Why so jealous of her?"

Harry shrugged. He did not _feel_ particularly jealous.

"Is it because she is actively looking for someone to spend her time with? That she is trying to move on with her life while you're in your office by yourself chasing ghosts, trying to reclaim that honeymoon moment of fighting Voldemort?" Harry could feel her eyes rove up and down his person, reading his body language. "There is more. More than I can tell. Something deeper. But this is part of it. You can't accept that she's getting better and you're getting worse, can you?"

At this point, Harry felt rage froth upwards into his brain, and he wished to be away from this madwoman's drivel, but he knew he must stay. Gryffindor courage and all, after all. But among her disingenuous assertions, thoughts of Hermione and Ron sitting on a couch and talking through their problems bubbled upwards and Harry felt a dark electric current travel down his spine. Why was she trying to speak to Ron? Why had he convinced her to do so? He and Ginny couldn't do it, so how could Ron and Hermione?

Harry pushed down the traitorous thoughts; they were best friends who became lovers. Their relationship was much stronger than Harry could have ever hoped his with Ginny's could be.

Yet at that thought, Harry couldn't help but feel a certain emptiness settle in his stomach at the thought of Ron and Hermione being best friends, confiding in each other things he could never learn about them.

But he was being paranoid wasn't he? Ron was like an open book. He'd tell Harry anything and everything. Hermione, on the other hand...

And therein lay the crux of the matter.

Harry gave the witch a wry smile, thinking back to something she had said a few minutes earlier. "I don't want to waste my breath on them."

"Stubbornness. Pride. Arrogance," the witch counted, "it's nice to see you are indeed human, Mr. Smiley, but you should learn from previous examples: men of your stature with your foibles all inevitably fall."

Harry's eyes danced with mirth as he responded, "But that's only if I allow myself to climb so high to begin with."

"Do not use such doublespeak with me, boy." The witch chided, "Now, I must make another incursion into your mind if you cannot determine what it is that you fear."

She did not count or give any other warning before rather suddenly forcing her way into Harry's mind.

* * *

_It all made sense._

_He was the sacrifice all along, the last horcrux. He needed to die so that another could finally kill Voldemort. It made sense, in a bizarre, cruel way. But, try as he might, trying to avoid Ron and Hermione, as much as he needed his family to be with him during that long, lonely trek to the Forbidden Forest, there was a part of him that knew it would always end this way. And, an even deeper part of himself appreciated the irony. He was the golden boy so long, the 'chosen one'-Merlin, he hated that moniker!-and all he had to do was die so someone else could finish the job._

_He was no hero. They were. All the people that were left behind. He was just a foolish boy who thought he could take on an old killer. And, ironically, people believed he could. All of these people were gone- Remus, Tonks, Sirius, his father and mother, countless others-because of a war between two idiots._

_He was no hero. And Voldemort would make sure that everyone knew he died a coward's death. He never was a hero. _

_But he appreciated the world in a different way, now. Nothing mattered except getting to the Forbidden Forest. He was weary of living. He was weary of the friendships and bonds he had to break with this act. No one would ever know the sacrifice he made; he would go down in history as a man who deserted his comrades in their time of need. That was his fate. _

_A traitor. A coward. And most of all: dead._

_He was weary of it all. Except one thing. The Forbidden Forest. One last fight before died. One last chance to test his strength, and revel in that feeling of_ being alive_ before facing the unknown. He did not care for his legacy. The only people whom he wanted to know the truth would believe his side of the story. Ginny, Hermione, Ron. They would know what he did for them. He hoped. _

_No, his legacy didn't matter. What he meant to the world, did not matter. Only standing up to Voldemort _one last time_, to feel that feeling of_ joy_ one more time, before going on into the darkness._

_He had accepted who he was._

_And it was not a hero. Or a coward. Just a monster. Who enjoyed fighting, and death. And he was a fool to have thought he could live a happy life with Ginny, full of love, with children and grandchildren and dying in his bed peacefully. What better way to die than this: at the hands of a worthy enemy? _

_He was no hero. Never was. Just a boy who had defied death too many times, and was now receiving his comeuppance._

_You're only happy when you're fighting him..._

_...Yes, I am._

_"Harry Potter," came the slithering, snakelike voice._

* * *

The witch recoiled, and Harry groaned, his hand instinctively going to his forehead, which had erupted into a terrible migraine.

"Merlin," she muttered, taken aback but somehow managing to smile easily at him, "you are insane, you know?"

"So I've been told," Harry replied genially.

She stretched. "You are tougher than most. I will have to go again. Perhaps for the last time."

And suddenly, she was in his mind again, investigating the memory Harry had of speaking to Hermione the day after the battle, atop the ruins of Hogwarts, watching children and families play below them. Her face morphed into an ungainly version of itself, screwed up in concentration. She stared deeply at Harry, and, as quickly as it started, she was back and so was he.

"So that is what you fear, is it?" The Witch questioned, looking thoughtful. "Somehow, I expected that."

"Expected what?"

"You to be frightened of never having a _challenge_ again," the witch smirked, "it's very _you,_ boy. Against your better judgement, you love conflict, don't you? And that's why you're afraid you can never connect with anyone. Because both Miss Granger and Mister Weasley believe in a peaceful world. And you? You are a product of war. An old killer. Someone who enjoys suffering and combat. Unable to connect to wide-eyed idealists like them."

Harry smirked. "I was like them, once."

"Once," the witch repeated, "it seems you have since accepted your lot in life. And what a terribly lonely life it is."

"Well, it's a life," Harry defended rather weakly. The witch simply smiled sardonically at him:

"Come," she beckoned him forward in the softest, kindest voice he had heard her use all day, "take my hand."

Harry at once wondered why it appeared every woman in his life wanted to boss him around, but took the woman's hand anyways, she did not seem to want to harm him.

"I will be administering the test now."

"Wait... what you did just now wasn't the test?"

"No, of course not. But it gives me some perspective."

"Perspective of what?"

"Patience, you shall see."

The witch sat rigid, clasping Harry's hand with a sense of familiar warmness he had not felt in a long while. But, with a surge of magic that Harry could literally _feel_, the witch's hands became icy. The Cloister itself seemed to have dropped thirty degrees in temperature. It felt as though he was holding a block of ice, and Harry desperately wanted to take his hand out from hers, but the witch was gripping it far too tightly. Harry closed his eyes and began to breathe deeply trying to cast a silent warming charm upon himself.

The feeling of cold dimmed somewhat, but now he could feel a fierce wind upon his face. The witch had let go of his hand, but something was there, something he was holding that was most certainly _not_ a hand.

Harry opened his eyes and found himself in the middle of what appeared to be a blizzard. The witch was gone. He looked down and found himself dressed in a type of armor he had never seen before. Ministry armor seemed to always be made out of Dragonhide and made in the style of the Victorian Era, however, what he was wearing was without a doubt designed for combat, but looked distinctly twenty-first century. It appeared to be a muscle suit created with kevlar that made it ideal for sneaking around. An answer came for him from the back of his mind: _Aramid Fibers_. Harry wasn't sure what that meant. Currently, the suit was white, like the snow beneath him, and it was very difficult to tell where his body ended and the snow began.

He examined what it was he was gripping in his right hand, finding a heavily modified assault rifle in he hand. Without knowing how he knew, Harry guessed it was an M4 Carbine. Despite never having held a firearm before, Harry instinctively knew what to do, practicing firearm safety by keeping his finger close to, but not directly on the trigger. Why was he using a gun? It was at that moment, Harry realized he was gripping something in his left hand, too.

And in it, was his faithful old friend: the holly and phoenix-feather wand. And once again, he instinctively knew what do. He held his wand, tip facing outwards, perpendicular to his fingers, with his ring finger and pinky curled around it, whilst freeing his middle and index fingers, as well as his thumb to wrap around the railed handguard over the barrel. Somehow, he remembered that it allowed for a combination of gun and wandplay for all situations.

Harry tried to stand, and did so, with effort. His joints felt stiffer than he remembered, his bones ached, and his muscles were sore. One of his lat muscles was so sore that he nearly collapsed into the snow by straining it too much in his attempt to stand. However, the suit he was wearing seemed to act of its own accord and apply pressure and heat to the offended area.

It felt magical.

A resolve he did not know was his own enveloped Harry's body, and he felt the need to move on. To start walking. Without knowing how he learned to do it, Harry lifted the weapon with practiced ease, aiming down the sights and keeping his wand in the same position and trekked forward, feet landing light on the snow.

It was impossible to hear anything over the howl of the wind, but Harry tried, crouching and tip-toeing over to an area where he spotted a tree enclosed by a hard packed ice and stone; a bit of a breather from the snow. If Harry had to guess, he would say he was in a mountain valley.

It was still incredibly hard to see, and he made to shift his glasses, but found that he wasn't wearing any, causing him to do a double-take. He could see clearly without his glasses! Ever since he was a child, his eyesight was pitifully poor, not even magic could fix that, how was he able to see now?

_No. Never mind that. Keep moving._

So he moved, inching forward in the gale-force, pelted with frozen flakes that felt more like stinging rain droplets than anything else. He kept moving forward, unable to see anything until the world seemed open up before him. Suddenly, he found himself staring at a wide open expanse of snow from a ledge. The mountain valley seemed to open up into infinity.

Perhaps he would not have been able to tell the difference between it and the long stretch of land he had conquered, if not for the snow being stained red. With a start, Harry realized what he was looking at.

A field. A battlefield. Littered with bodies.

Harry lowered the gun, trying to make sure what he was seeing was real. Of course it wasn't-was it? As far as he could see, bodies, some laying peacefully, some horrifically mangled, lay strewn among the snow. And in the distance was a strange fortress that Harry couldn't quite make out. Was this some sort of failed siege?

Making sure he was alone, Harry raised the assault rifle once more, placing his wand firmly in the other hand, which also gripped the handguard, and moved forward into the silent battlefield.

Harry immediately recognized the dead. Their faces were burned into his memory, he would never forget those faces. They were just memories. From four years earlier. Was it four years? It felt like it had been much longer.

The blood stains were quickly being covered by fresh snow and that of blowing drifts, covering the bodies almost immediately as Harry passed by.

_Phineas Dodson_, Harry remembered, staring at the pallid face of a once-lively, well-built Auror. Ironically, given the outside conditions, half his face was burned. Harry remembered he had nearly burst into flame from a well-placed Death Eater Curse. His robes, hiding cracked armor underneath, billowed out in the wild winds, slowly being consumed by the ever-encroaching snow.

Harry turned. Elias Tull. Another man killed by a Death Eater blasting curse at The Second Battle of Hogwarts; his body lay in pieces, strewn amongst countless other bodies. Bodies that Harry, indirectly, was responsible for.

Stephanie Lake. Peter Burts. Danny Crouch.

He remembered all their names. And the ones he didn't, simply lay faceless. A small path in the snow widened in front of Harry, dead bodies on either side. He passed Colin and Fred, Remus and Tonks, Sirius and Moody, Dobby and Hedwig, her pure-white feathers made here near impossible to see among the drifts.

Suddenly, the field of bodies simply ended. Harry turned to look back, but all he could see were miles of snow. All of the dead had been covered by the blizzard. Harry turned back to face front, keeping the gun trained on anything that might come out of the flurry. But he only spotted two bodies lying further along. The fortress, made out of some metallic material, loomed larger than it had earlier. It looked remarkably like a science research facility as Harry got closer.

Which begged to ask the question: how did he know what a science research facility looked like?

Harry shook the question from his head, continuing onward. Suddenly, the research facility seemed to come into fine-focus, the two bodies became clearer, and behind them appeared to be a strange helipad, made useless by the elements. His gait slowed as Harry recognized the two bodies in the snow. One had wild, jet-black hair and peaceful look upon his face, looking as if he were just sleeping. Harry could not help but reflexively smile, even among the bitter memories it brought, of his father lying there, content-like. Sirius and Remus were right, he _did_ look remarkably like his father. Almost to the point where one could probably claim he was a clone.

Next to him was a woman. Fine strands of fiery-red hair splayed outwards, clashing with the white ground. Unlike James Potter, Lily Potter did not have that same look of peace her husband did, content with having died to protect his family. Her eyes were wide open and staring into the overcast, gray-turning-black sky. Absolute horror seemed to cloud her once brilliant emerald eyes, his eyes, her eyes. For the barest, most fleeting seconds, Harry could _feel_ his mother's fear in her final minutes of life. James was gone, only she and their-now only _hers_-son were left, and a madman stalked the hallways outside that little room, intent on ending them as well. And in a second, all that life was gone, replaced only with palpable terror. Terror that she and her son would die, terror, for fear that everything that Lily and James had worked for would simply vanish, her entire legacy gone-leaving nothing behind for the world to benefit from her dark-haired little child.

Harry felt ashamed.

Lily Potter, a beautiful, bright witch, gave her life and her dignity for her son, Harry. James Potter, did the same, in hopes that his son could enjoy all the things he had. And what was he? What more was he than an obsessive-compulsive, apathetic faux-detective who enjoyed death and suffering? With a strange, dry sensation in his mouth and throat, Harry realized that his mother's sacrifice was worthless, wasted on someone far less noble than she.

But, perhaps, he could give her something; some sort of peace-offering from the child who could never live up to Lily Potter's long shadow?

Harry took his left hand off the guard and switched his wand to his right hand, held in between the middle and ring fingers as Harry shifted the firearm for more a more comfortable position. Harry crouched over his mother's face, bringing his hand down to her eyelids, trying to close them over her emerald orbs, only to find his hand go through her face and a bone-chilling cold to spread through his veins.

He recoiled, a combination of the cold emanating from his mother's body and a loud, piercing howl that ripped through the area. Harry wheeled around, wand returning to his left hand and posing in the similar guarded position he had been employing earlier to face down any attackers.

What he saw, instead, confused him: a dog-like figure stood just on the edge of his field of vision. _Wolf_, Harry corrected, realizing no dog howled quite like that. A sheen of white fur covered the wolf's body, and it shook off the snow that had accumulated along its head and back as it started to make its way towards Harry. In a quick maneuver, Harry pulled back the safety and raised the gun in a threatening manner, his wandtip glowing slightly along with it. But the wolf marched forward, slowly, reverently. Harry questioned why the only thing he had seen alive in this strange world he'd been dropped into was this Arctic Wolf, but instinct and self-preservation overrode any sort of curiosity he was feeling.

And yet, the beast trudged forward through the snow, which was quickly covering the deceased Potters. It stopped a meter before Harry, so close that he could make out every whisker on its snout, before doing something _abnormal_. Well, perhaps not abnormal, given that Harry _was_ a wizard, but still, it caught him off guard: the wolf _bowed_.

Harry took it to be a sort of understanding between himself and the animal, much like his fist experience with Buckbeak, Hagrid's Hippogriff, in his Third Year at Hogwarts. The wolf made a soft panting noise as it nudged closer to Harry, radiating good intentions. Slowly, warily, Harry lowered the gun and his wand. The wolf inched closer and made contact, nuzzling its snout into Harry's wand-hand, whining slightly. With a shift of its head, the white-gray wolf indicated the helipad, raised a few meters from the ground with steps leading up to the tarmac. Harry turned, keeping an eye on the wolf, not totally trusting of it yet.

It nudged him again, this time in the thigh, before it made its way to the helipad. The wolf took a few stolid steps, making light imprints in the snow, before turning with an inquiring gaze at the DCI. He followed, making a far larger mess of the snow than the wolf. Harry stopped to look around, and found that his parents, too, had disappeared into the snow. He did not have chance to close his mother's eyes.

Positioning his gun and wand into their original, defensive position again, he trudged behind the wolf, calmly and quickly sneaking up the steps onto the tarmac where, instead of a helicopter or some form of flying device, Harry found another body lying spread-eagled, awaiting him. The wolf looked on and let out a tiny whimper as Harry approached the next corpse, impassive, until he realized, with a start, that the body was moving. Or, not really moving, but squirming, writhing in pain.

He saw luxuriant red-gold hair and for a moment thought it was his mother come back to life once more, but upon closer inspection, Harry found it was his once 'true love', Ginny Weasley. The wolf stopped next to her squirming little body and howled piteously into the air. Harry thought he heard a howl in answer come back carrying through the wind. Ginny's eyes were staring up at nothing, much like Harry's mother, though the Weasley's intelligent brown eyes looked hazy and unfocused, spinning from place-to-place as if in REM sleep. Her hands were clutched at her stomach. Harry crouched in front of her; she looked confused, as if she did not recognize him.

Harry wanted to say something, but Ginny simply stared, and the wolf nudged him towards where her hands were clasped. Harry lifted them gently, resting the gun against his thigh but keeping his wand in arm. Unclasping her hands, Harry found a knife in her stomach. She had been stabbed multiple times. It was only then he noticed the blood pooling underneath her back.

Ginny's eyes seemed to focus. "H-harry?" She wheezed, squinting, "Y-your face..."

"Ginny," Harry was surprised by his own voice, low, gravelly, hoarse, sounding cracked with age, "I'm here." He tried to remember what little medical spells he had learned in Auror Training, but almost immediately as he started, Ginny grasped Harry's gloved wrist with one bloody hand:

"No..." she whispered, "Can't save. Don't want... suffer."

She glanced down at the M4 resting against Harry's thigh. The wolf whined and pawed at the gun, trying to move it back into Harry's hand. Reluctantly, he took it, but shook his head.

"No. I can't do this," he muttered to himself, but Ginny gripped his wrist tighter, which must have been exhausting, Harry noted, given the blood she was losing:

"Please."

The wolf whined again.

Harry stood, wrenching free from Ginny's grasp. "You're going to be fine."

"No... I'm not," as if to punctuate her simple statement, a trickle of blood fled Ginny's mouth and ran down her right cheek.

Harry grimaced. Ginny eyed the rifle in his hands once more and asked him again. Harry took a deep, shuddering breath, and brought the gun up to an aiming position, where he eyed Ginny's heart down the sights. He breathed again, checking if the safety was on or off instinctively, which brought more questions of _how_ Harry knew how to use a gun in his mind, but Harry forced his mind to go blank. Ginny smiled up at him, all sounds forgotten; suddenly there was no breathing, no panting, no writhing or groaning. There was just the howling wind, Ginny's smile, and Harry's finger squeezing the trigger.

Maybe if he were himself, Harry would have been surprised by the loud crack discharged from the gun and the recoil, but he wasn't fazed. Not even as he saw the bullet strike the girl whom he once claimed to be in love with. It was the same as a doctor having euthanized a terminally ill patient, or putting down a horse with a broken leg.

Emotionless.

Ginny's shocked look eventually morphed into a smile. "I... I l-love y-you."

_Lie to her_, Harry thought, _tell her you love her too_. _Let her die with some sense of peace_.

But Harry could not bring himself to do it. He could not bring himself to tell her he had the same feelings for her. Because Harry never would. He wasn't entirely sure he could love _anyone_ like that. Ginny coughed and sputtered and held onto his hand, but Harry said nothing, only watching her with saddened eyes. He could not help but feel that, somehow, her death was his fault, and before he could think, Harry sputtered out:

"I'm sorry," and he averted his gaze.

He did not know what he apologized for.

"Don't be," was the soft response, and a stroking sensation upon his head, before it slowed, and eventually came to a stop. There was a slight whooshing sound and the same arm that had been stroking Harry's head fell into his hand, and he squeezed her rapidly cooling hands.

When Harry looked back, he would see Ginny with her eyes closed, a slight smile on her face, and one hand on his.

The wolf nudged him yet again, telling him to move onward towards the strange fortress a few hundred meters away.

Harry stepped around Ginny's corpse and towards the end of the helipad, taking the stairs one at time back onto the snow-covered ground. Underneath it, he realized, was concrete. Where _was_ he? The wolf trotted up to where he was and stopped, waiting expectantly for the DCI to continue to the large metallic double-doors, with iron bars and locks all over them that made them look like giant safe-vault doors. Harry reached the doors, stopping in front of them to survey the many complex locking mechanisms. Thinking he heard another noise, Harry turned around, fully expecting to see Ginny's body and the helipad in the distance, but there was nothing but miles and miles of snow. It appeared Ginny had been covered as well.

The wolf let out another howl and the contraptions upon the doors unsealed it, allowing Harry entrance. He raised the gun and moved in, only to find two people he did not expect to see. Ron and Hermione stood at the end of a long hallway, where an elevator stood. They seemed to be completely enamored by whatever conversation they were having. Hermione held a little child close to her chest and Ron was waving his hands animatedly; she smiled at him in that sweet way she normally did, eyes crinkling around the corners.

Harry wanted to run to his friends, but a voice in his head told him to exercise caution. He approached Ron and Hermione slowly, gun raised at the ready. For some reason, he couldn't help but feel he did not want to go to them, but, nevertheless, Harry persevered.

Ron's face immediately morphed into a scowl as he saw Harry. Hermione stared at the redhead in a confused manner before turning to Harry, an exuberant smile blew up onto her face. She rushed over to Harry and handed him the child. He saw a miniature version of himself, wild black hair, green eyes, and a lightning bolt scar on his forehead. As soon as the baby touched his hands, however, it simply disappeared. Before Harry could wonder just what the hell was going on, the honey-haired woman placed her hands on either cheek, in a rather intimate manner, leaned in, and kissed him deeply.

Harry blinked, looking to Ron from behind Hermione's head, horrified. The redhead's scowl turned into an outright mask of disgust.

Hermione's kiss was slow and meandering, just a brush of the lips against his, and an icy chill flew up his spine. The thought that Harry was snogging his best mate's girlfriend, whom happened to be his _other_ best friend, both terrified and exhilarated him at the same time. Once finished, Hermione let out a shy, nervous smile, and leaned her forehead against his.

"I don't care what's happened to you," she finally said, "I don't care. Just _don't go_."

Hermione hugged him, and Ron's ears turned red. _Jealousy_? Harry questioned himself. Suddenly pain wracked Harry's body, and while he had simply felt older before, the feeling had intensified ten-fold in the manner of seconds. His back exploded in pain, his knees felt raw a broken from constant running, there was a pain in his legs and feet, and his chest tightened uncomfortably, to the point where Harry wondered if he was suffering a miniature heart-attack.

The words tumbled out of Harry's mouth. "I have to. Has to be me."

"No, it doesn't."

Harry tried to suppress a grimace of pain. He turned, and caught his reflection in the window of a dark room and nearly recoiled at what he saw. An old man stared back at him, still the same height and build, but there were wrinkles pockmarking his face, his once vibrant green eyes were clouded with age, his hair silver, and a beard that he had grown at _some_ point was the same color. He looked _ancient_.

What happened?

But he didn't question that, instead, he looked at Hermione and smiled softly. "This was my fault."

"No it wasn't-" Hermione countered fiercely, but Harry, not entirely sure why he was suddenly so chummy with a woman he had been on platonic terms with so long, hugged her without thinking.

"You're young," he whispered into her ear, inhaling her lavender scent.

"You are, too."

Harry snorted. "I've always been an bitter old man in spirit, now I've just the body to match."

"You'll die," she said simply. Harry saw no use in lying to her:

"Yes. Probably."

"Then why?"

Harry smiled. "Because even if you want things one way; it has to be the other way."

And with that cryptic statement, he broke off the embrace and stalked (noting he could not walk without a limp, anymore) toward the elevators, where Ron awaited him. The redhead's furious softened just a little bit upon seeing a hobbled old man limping his way:

"Good luck," he said curtly as Harry pressed the 'down' button on the elevator.

"Thanks," was the only response Harry gave before the elevator door opened and the silver-haired wizard walked in.

"Wait!" Hermione cried, running over to Harry, "take this," she handed him a mirror, "it's one of those two-way mirrors, so we can talk to you while you're down there."

"Thanks," Harry replied, not meeting her eyes. He knew she was smiling at him; trying to be brave, but he had no idea _why_ she was so frightened, and he had no idea _why_ a feeling of dread was creeping up his spine.

The doors closed in front of him, and he could feel it lurch and start travelling down. It was only then he noticed the Arctic Wolf was still there, seated obediently at his feet, panting lightly. "You should stay," Harry muttered to it, and the wolf quirked its head enquiringly, before nudging his legs yet again. Down and down Harry went for what seemed like miles. Eventually, however, the elevator doors opened, and he was in an impeccable constructed hallway, reminiscent of those underground room built in the hull of a ship. At the end of hall was a rectangular room, and against the other wall was a submarine-inspired door, hatch and all. Harry did not need to be told to keep his gun and wand at the ready as he made his trek from one end of the hallway to the door hatch, which he twisted open and found another metallic hallway.

_Decontamination Room,_ Harry's mind corrected for him. What? He did not even know what a Decontamination Room _was_, how could tell that this room was one?

"Conjure up a shield, Harry," came Hermione's voice from the mirror. Harry instinctively smiled at that bossy tone she was so famous for, "We need to fortify it, make it as strong as possible."

"_Protego_," Harry said, wrapping the shield around him, trying to layer it over and over again. He wasn't exactly sure what he was preparing for, but he knew it wasn't going to be good.

Next, Ron's voice came through the mirror, terse and tense. "Open the door, Potter." Apparently, as Harry expected, in whatever future this test took place in, Ron wasn't entirely on the best of terms with him.

Harry looked over to the side of the large door, similarly constructed as the doors that led into the research facility. He limped over to a control panel on the side and punched in a code that Hermione said rather absentmindedly. The door opened, and the first thing that registered was an overwhelming sense of _pain_. There was heat, his brain pounded inside his skull, as if seeking a way out, and he felt immediately nauseous.

"Be strong, Harry," came Hermione's soft, soothing voice from the mirror, "cast a levitating charm, that way we'll be able to see you."

Numbly, Harry did as the honey-haired woman told. The mirror floated off to the side while Harry stepped onto a platform, a long catwalk and it suddenly felt as if he had been thrown into a microwave oven. His shield was already straining against him, apparently protecting him from harmful 'gamma rays' in the room. Apparently it was something left over from a nuclear accident inside the research facility months earlier. How did he know that? Harry distinctly remembered Hermione explaining that to him one night. A night where they were together, alone, in bed, quite naked.

But nothing like that ever happened, right? Was the witch's test implanting false memories into him?

As if to punish him for thinking, part of Harry's shield cracked, and suddenly the heat became unbearable. Harry felt his body instinctively slow to lumbering gait, one step at a time. The wolf limped alongside him. He could feel the internal sensors of the suit he was wearing go off, trying to keep his body cool, but nothing was working, he was simply boiling. Harry tried to repair the shield while continuing to walk when the temperature regulator in his suit practically exploded, sending an electrical shock through Harry's body, causing him to fall over.

"Harry!" Hermione yelled frantically as Harry tried to stand, but could only force himself to crawl. The headache and nausea were rising to fever pitch, and quite suddenly, without even thinking, Harry turned over the edge of the catwalk and vomited. Strangely enough, he wasn't surprised that the entirety of the contents of his vomit was blood.

"Get up, get up!" Hermione cried.

Ron's voice joined hers. "You have to stand, Potter."

Harry tried, tried to stand, tried to reform his shield, but eventually settled on crawling. His face felt like it was being burned off, he couldn't breathe, like he was drowning. But Harry knew, for some reason, he had to keep moving.

So he crawled, drowning and burning alive at the same time, feeling cracks and pressure in his shield until, with pain that made Harry feel like he was being stabbed, his shield exploded around him, sending Harry sprawling on his stomach. Something caught fire and Harry fell on it face first, left side of his face coming into contact with the flames and being burned by it.

"_Move_! Merlin, _move_!" The cry of the hysterical woman was drowned out by the shards of Harry's own shield scraping against his freshly burned skin. Harry let out a cry of pain, but realized he couldn't make a sound, his throat was too dry. But he could not let them down, not Ron, and certainly not Hermione. So he moved. He moved as quickly as he could, which was felt like an inch an hour. The wolf, whimpering and sizzling like Harry, barely dragging itself along. Both of them moved and moved until it was a struggle to just crawl, when the another doorway appeared to be in sight.

"Come on, Harry, please!"

A few more torturous seconds, drowning, locked-in, aflame, boiling, Harry crawled to the control panel punching the button, and with his last reserves of strength crawled out into a much cooler decontamination area, where he continued to vomit blood into a grate, all the while hearing Hermione crying in the background and Ron sighing in relief, and the wolf standing there as though it were a watchful guardian.

"Potter, you have to keep moving."

Harry slowly stood up, gathering his nearly fried M4, which still had firing capability, amazingly. He stumbled forward to the next door, finding a way through the need of a passcode by hacking into the system, a skill Harry had never known he had.

The large doors melted apart and Harry was greeted perhaps, by the strangest sight he had ever seen. Four gravestones stood in the middle of the room. They read: _TR; __AD_; _SS_; and _HP_.

Tom Riddle, Albus Dumbledore, Severus Snape, and Harry Potter.

Three grave stones were covered some sort of moss, but the ground underneath the HP stone was simply the glass floor which had been cut into to make a depression suitable to be a body's final resting place.

"Merlin," Hermione breathed from the mirror.

"What is this place?" Ron asked.

Harry was about to answer with a noncommittal 'I don't know' when the ambient magic in the room seemed to flare up, cutting off anything Harry could say as he felt like he was choking on his own spit. He needed it to stop, needed to get some place safe, his chest was tightening considerably, his left arm was starting to feel sore, a strange dull passing through it. The mirror cracked and exploded much as Harry's shield had. Suddenly, a piercing pain filled his chest and Harry doubled over. The wolf seemed to sense his pain and sniffed at him, before it gently pushed him to the ground. From his prone position, he could see a figure emerge from the shadows behind the four grave-markers.

It sauntered slowly towards Harry, whom couldn't move, due to the pain in his chest and his arms. Malevolent glee exuded off the figure, which stepped out into relief; into the light.

Harry was staring at himself. Again.

Though it wasn't quite the same. He had no lightning-bolt scar, nor did he have green eyes, but strange, cold, unfeeling blues. It crouched over Harry seemingly perplexed; the wolf growled at the doppelganger, perhaps realizing it was not the real Harry, but when the clone's gaze snapped to it, the wolf backed off with a whimper. Once again, Harry's shadow seemed to lavish the real one with its attention:

"So precious..." he muttered. His voice was Harry's, though pitched differently to sound hoarse, crackling, thoroughly inhuman. It seemed he did not breathe when he spoke.

"W-who are you?" Harry questioned through the pain, but the doppelganger hushed him:

"Shh! Lie down, we won't hurt you," the doppelganger said.

"We?"

"We are the joy. Your joy. You are the sorrow. You live half a life without us. We can make you whole," 'The Joy' reached out and touched the burned half of Harry's face, causing him to flinch, and the doppelganger waited tentatively before placing its fingers back on his cheeks. "But you must accept us yourself." Harry did not have the strength to move, it felt as if his heart were about to implode and darkness crept in at the edges of his vision.

The Joy smiled shyly and placed its other hand on his unblemished cheek, eyes turning a ghostly, electric blue as the ambient magic in the room surged forward again, sending Harry into the darkness.

* * *

_September 4th, 2002 11:15 PM  
The Circus HQ, Liverpool, UK_

Control breathed slowly.

_In and out. In and out._

He still wasn't entirely sure as to what happened in The Cloister between The Oracle and Potter. Normally, he gave Oracle free reign as her legilimency skills and seer abilities made her quite good at feeling out the weaknesses in potential recruits, but he had never seen anything like this. Potter, a man who was in tip-top shape and only twenty-two years old, went into cardiac arrest, suffered a_ heart attack,_ and came out with half his face blackened from some sort of burn. But, he wasn't the only one injured, The Oracle, a woman whom Control had never seen suffer even a paper cut managed to end up in The Circus sickbay with Potter with a concussion, a broken arm, and apparent severe dehydration.

Word had spread among some of his agents that a new recruit had sent Oracle to the sickbay, and that he himself was severely injured, however, that did not discount from the fact that he had injured a normally unflappable woman. Some were starting to get a little reckless, so Control organized a meeting to tell them what had happened and to not be alarmed.

However, the best laid plans...

There was a bit of an uproar that Control had to forcibly calm them, saying that neither Oracle nor the new recruit were very seriously injured. It almost turned into a shouting match between he and his men, but, eventually, the respect they had for their leader won over their initial concern for Oracle and any new recruit.

Currently, Control was making his way to the sickbay, down gleaming hallways and past intelligence rooms, all men and women standing at attention as their venerable leader passed by, face still shrouded by his hood.

Down two hallways he passed, through the sky bridge connecting the Training Building to the Sickbay, through the Sickbay Atrium and past a few Healers, all of whom greeted Control graciously when he passed by. Finally, he came to the Training Injuries section of the Sickbay. Five people lay on five of the ten available beds, and one, a youngish-looking woman, though Control knew she was indeed ancient, sat reading a book.

"Are you trying to get over your concussion by focusing on something so much that the pain goes away?"

"Yes," muttered Oracle in response.

Control smirked. "And how is that working out for you?"

Oracle snapped the book shut and rubbed her temples. "Not well," she replied, smiling genuinely, "Nasty little bugger, this one." Control raised a questioning eyebrow and saw the patient in the next bed over. Messy black hair spilled over his snow white pillow and half of his face, no doubt the burned half was covered in anti-burn gauze, which would help reheal the skin over the burn. In a few days, Potter's face should go back to normal, Control mused. He breathed in and out slowly, eyes moving as if he were having a significant dream.

Finally, Control wrenched his eyes away from the new recruit and brought it back to Oracle. "What the hell happened in there?"

"You remember how my test works right?" Oracle questioned, still rubbing her temples.

Control nodded impatiently. "Yes, yes, you turn their minds against them and have them experience their own mindscape and everything they fear come to life."

"Yes," Oracle agreed, "But I wasn't able to do it with our new recruit, here. His mind already is already at war with itself."

"What did you see?"

"A battlefield. In the snow. All the recruit did was walk through it, staring at dead bodies along the way. I followed in the form of an Arctic Wolf."

"What does that even mean?"

"Usually, the mind is a source of wish-fulfillment. People go there to get away from the real world. So, often, most peoples' mindscapes are supposed to be soothing, and calming: a beach where they can relax, a meadow where they can go frolicking, an endless expanse of sky, who knows? There certainly are aspects of wish-fulfillment in the recruit's mind, such as his rendezvous with his two 'best friends'."

"Best friends?" Control interrogated.

A smirk played at Oracle's lips. "Do you know how Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger are currently dating each other?"

Control snorted. "Jealousy? I'd never have thought it."

"Is it so surprising? Considering the shared suffering both Granger and the recruit went through, it would be natural for the recruit to resent that she has been able to move on with her life, while he stays behind, tortured by his own memories. And moreover, it-"

"-It would be natural to be jealous that she choose the _other _man over him," Control finished for Oracle.

"Indeed," Oracle continued, "But the rest of his mind seems to be horrifying, even without my intervention. His mind is a snowfield, in the middle of a blizzard, with dead bodies littering the ground. He was forced to kill his first love, and cross a bridge, shooting rays of _something_ that nearly killed both of us, to a graveyard inside a fortress."

"A graveyard?" Control raised an eyebrow.

"With four gravestones, labelled TR; AD; SS; and a still open grave with the headstone 'HP' over it."

"Tom Riddle; Albus Dumbledore; Severus Snape; and Harry Potter. The four men who understood each other most, despite being on opposite sides."

Oracle sighed. "He regrets being alive."

"Huh."

"One more thing," Oracle began, "Something happened while we were in his mind that I've never experienced before."

"Other than getting yourself sent to the sickbay?" Control joked; Oracle eyed him narrowly:

"Please," she pleaded for Control to shut his mouth, "I think I had a flash. Of his future. And it bled into the test."

"What kind of a flash?"

Control knew that Oracle would never truly tell him the truth, but he would take whatever she would give him. "The Recruit had... had a hard life. And he will still have a hard life."

Control couldn't do anything but simply incline his head in dumb acknowledgement of what Oracle had said. He knew that Oracle was never one for overstatement, and that if she said Potter would have a hard life ahead of him, he knew she was telling the truth.

"Oracle?" Control softly asked, wanting to get the answer he originally allowed Oracle to test Potter for, "What unit?"

Oracle gulped, looking at the sleeping form with a sense of motherly fondness. Control supposed this was why so many of his men were up in arms over her injury; Oracle was, for all intents and purposes, a surrogate mother to all the men and women of The Circus. However, Oracle knew that she had a duty to The Circus over what she felt for her comrades and responded, slowly, deliberately:

"He is a killer..." she trailed off.

"Ah," Control trailed off, "so place him with Zero, then."

"Yes," came her small voice in agreement.

Control turned away when Oracle broke the silence once more. "Control?" He turned back to her, "I would advise you to change his code name. Smiley simply does not fit."

Control looked surprised. "And do you have a suggestion."

"Sorrow. His life characterized by it. He is not a messenger of joy, or smiles."

Control mulled over the name, before nodding in assent. "Alright," he found the Healer on call and told her to come get him once Potter had awoken. Before leaving the sickbay, he stopped to give one last look at his newest recruit, and pitied him for a brief time. Control knew his life was not easy, and Oracle had simply confirmed that he would not get that happy nuclear family ending most heroes hoped for.

"Rest, soldier," he muttered to himself. "There is much to do."

* * *

**A/N:** Another chapter down, and sorry it took so long! I did some editing of the first chapter and added in a prologue, so if you want to read those, I'd advise you to go check them out now! Next chapter is called 'Prodigal Gun', which has to do with our side-plot of Harry's Agilian Case and shopping around with Dean for a suitable firearm. Trust me, it will make sense in context. Of course, Ron and Hermione make an appearance with news concerning of Xenophilius Lovegood's croaking. And, naturally, more of The Circus. But, the NIM case takes up most of the chapter.

Chapter Notes:

This chapter was influenced rather heavily by the Metal Gear Series, which you may or may not have noticed from the disclaimer:

The way Harry is using his wand and the M4 in tandem is similar to the CQC used in MGS. Furthermore, I pictured Snake's OctoCamo in MGS4 as the base for what Harry is wearing during his test. Harry's constant vehement denial that he is a hero and his apparent Werner's Syndrome in his mindscape mirrors Solid Snake's views on heroes and his own premature aging. His mindcape is slightly based off Shadow Moses. Crossing the catwalk is a reference to the famed Microwave Hallway sequence. And Harry's Doppelganger refers to himself as 'The Joy' and Harry himself as 'The Sorrow', which is homage to The Boss and The Sorrow. And, of course, Zero. Though he isn't as ambitious nor as downright devious as MGS's Zero.

Oh, and Oracle's quote that 'Harry had a hard life' mirrors what Otacon says to Sunny about Snake near the end of MGS4.

No. It will not be a crossover. Though an HP/MGS crossover could be pretty interesting.

Oracle refers to Harry's kiss with Hermione as 'wish-fulfillment'. Will this bring UST? Oh, in spades!

The Arctic Wolf was Oracle in the test, but wolves and canines appeal to Harry due to his animagi form and his connection with Sirius.

It's made deliberately obvious here that Harry is a bit of a sociopath. To the point where he admits he enjoys fighting, and, to a lesser extent killing, even though he's disgusted with himself for doing so. Made more obvious is Oracle's 'he's a killer' comment. Control is not exaggerating when he says she does not overstate.

Bits of Harry's future bled into the test, Oracle says. So what does the little Harry Hermione is holding mean, and what does Harry's apparent aging in the test mean?

Questions, questions!

Thanks again for reading, and please leave a review once finished. Also, be sure to check out the prologue!  
Geist

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	8. Scar Tissue

Disclaimer: All things Harry Potter belong to JKR. Oh, and honest to God I don't hate Irish people. My wife's part Irish. Don't hurt me. The chapter was originally named 'Prodigal Gun', but the tale sort of grew in the telling, so I've changed the title of this one.

Summary: Harry is discharged from The Circus Sickbay after a conversation with Control and Zero. Dean and Seamus take Harry a gun-shopping and Harry is placed in the Homicide Unit due to extenuating circumstances, where he and Seamus are to investigate the murder of a young woman who is the daughter of a highly influentual wizard celebrity. Hermione gives Harry an update on Ron, and brings him a letter alongside her own big news concerning her future. Seamus joins Harry for a drink.

* * *

The King of Limbs

Part 2

"And here I am thinking, 'Hey! We won!'..."  
- Seamus Finnigan

VI: Scar Tissue

* * *

_September 5, 8:12 AM  
The Circus Sickbay, Liverpool, UK_

When he came to, all Harry could feel was a searing pain coursing throughout the left side of his face. He was disoriented, and quite unaware of where he was, thinking, at first, that he was at Hogwarts once more and the last six years had been a terrible dream.

However, that was not to be. He was still twenty-two and not sixteen; Voldemort was still dead; and his face still hurt like _hell._

A healer, dressed in robes of white gave Harry a sweet-tempered smile and told him how he came to be in this strange-looking hospital, which she called a 'sickbay'. Apparently, he had been injured in some sort of test and Control had asked to see him the moment Harry awoke. As the healer hustled and bustled about, reminding Harry of another certain healer he knew, Harry looked off to his left, finding a middle-aged blonde woman staring back at him. She looked young, to be in her late thirties, at the most, but her eyes, a wizened gray color, seemed to hold more intelligence and experience than a mere forty years could impart upon a person.

She stared. He stared. Both did this for some time, trying to find something to say to the other. Harry assumed this was the witch whom had given Harry that test, but she wasn't nearly as talkative as the first time they met; she just watched him with sad, expressive eyes.

Another flash of dull pain throbbed at his cheek bones, as if he had been hit in the face with a mallet of some sort. Harry let out a chuckle, bringing his hand up to his face only for it to throb painfully once more. Harry elected to keep all body parts away from the injured area.

"What is so funny?" The witch asked.

Harry shrugged. "My face hurts."

The witch let out a laugh, soft and trilling, bringing back half-formed memories of a red-haired woman cooing and laughing over his crib. "Well, considering half of it has been burned, I think 'hurts' is an understatement."

"Burned?" Harry blinked. The witch picked a hand mirror up off her desk and handed it to Harry, who inspected his face interestedly. He poked at the burned and reddened skin. It was a relief that his skin hadn't bubbled up or otherwise deformed him, it just looked like a rather large scar he had recently acquired:

"Well, I reckon _this_ will be tough to explain," Harry sighed melodramatically.

The witch ignored Harry's bemoaning. "I am sorry."

"Sorry? Sorry for what?"

"The test. it was what injured you so."

Harry's face erupted in a wolfish grin. "Don't worry. I've had worse."

The witch nodded, laying back down in her cot and closing her eyes. Harry stared at his burned face through the handmirror, picking at different parts though the healer had told him thrice to leave it be, when two pairs of feet thudded against the cold metal floor of the sickbay. Harry turned to his right to see a hooded man, Control, unmistakably so, and a hard-set, brown-haired man with wearing a black suit, impeccably tailored.

"Hello again, Sorrow," Control said, unsmiling, all pretense of friendliness gone. Only the voice of a hardened battle commander remained.

"Sorrow?" Harry tested out the word, an eyebrow quirked in confusion.

Control merely shrugged, which still managed to look imposing, despite the nonchalance of the action: "Oracle gave you the name," the hooded man indicated the sleeping blonde in the cot next to Harry's.

"Oracle," Harry repeated, memorizing the name.

"Quite a scare you gave us," Control said, "but the test was, overall, a success. Oracle was able to determine a section for you, and you were able to confront your fear head-on."

"Did I?"

"Yes," Control smirked, "a world where there was no one left to challenge you? And all that was left was death, and the rest of humanity becoming mere mediocrity. You are not so hard to read, Sorrow."

Harry breathed deeply. "I see."

"And, we've determined your section, as I said," Harry's ears perked interestedly at that, while Control turned to the suit-wearing man, "This is Zero, leader of our Infiltration Unit."

"Infiltration Unit?"

"Perhaps it's best left to the master to explain?" Control said, allowing Zero to step forward. He wasn't terribly frightening, but the man carried himself in a way that left Harry with a distinct sense of unease. As if this man would kill him with no doubts if Zero saw fit.

"Infiltration," Zero started, his voice deepened by years of smoking, it seemed, "is best put in layman's terms as spywork."

"So, what? Er... like James Bond-type stuff?" Harry remembered Vernon's obsession with Sean Connery and the Bond movies, enamored by the fast lifestyle with fast cars and fast women. Since that was the only real experience Harry had ever seen with 'spies', he assumed that was what Zero had meant. But the brown-haired man merely shook his head and smiled a sardonic smile:

"No. Not like James Bond."

It was then that Harry realized he said the wrong thing, but Control stopped Zero before he could go on a tirade of what Harry could only assume to be anti-Bond ranting.

"Zero, might we get to the point?" He asked, rather sweetly.

Zero shook his head absentmindedly and seemed to focus on Harry once more. "There are no suits, or Aston Martins, and there are very rarely any pretty women. Most of the time, you are flat on your stomach, in a jungle of some sort; or desert, given the state of affairs these days; crawling in oppressive heat because you don't want any enemy scouts to see you. Bugs will crawl all over you, and you will often have to hunt for food."

Harry raised his eyebrows. That wasn't exactly the most _glowing _review of what the job would entail. Nor, as Zero had so kindly pointed out, was it all like James Bond movies.

"You will kill when you have to, and the mission is your most important goal. You may have to sell yourself and your ideals short in complete devotion to getting the mission _done_."

There was nothing else to do but nod dumbly. Control smiled reassuringly at Harry and excused himself from the sickbay, stating he had intel to pore over.

"Sorrow," Zero began again, "do you know of Samurai?"

"Samurai," Harry distantly remembered the name, something Hermione had mentioned a few years earlier after she had gone to Japan with her parents, apparently a truce for Hermione having erased their memories. "They're the Japanese version of knights, am I right?"

Zero weighed the answer. "Sort of," he agreed noncommittally, "Knights, however, did not follow the same sort of code. They may have nobles, but that did not stop them from being terrifyingly disgusting human beings. The Samurai had a code. Called Bushido. A complicated code of ethics on how to conduct yourself on the battlefield."

"A bit like dueling rules?" Harry asked, trying to clarify it in his own language.

"Yes," Zero agreed, "a bit like that. Think of everything you could do to make a fight honorable..."

Harry did for a moment: challenge the man to a duel, fight face-to-face, use the same weapons, on and on the list went until Harry finally nodded, allowing Zero to continue, who wore a predatory grin as he spoke:

"...And forget _all_ of it."

Harry imagined his eyes must have bugged out. But he did have to agree with the idea: infiltration itself, from the overview Zero had given of it, was not honorable or 'fair', so why should Harry have wasted time engaging enemies in fair fights?

"You will sneak up from behind, use your surroundings, and, if possible, avoid conflict altogether. There need not be any fancy wand-waving, do you understand? Besides, we are a global force, and we walk a line between Magical and Muggle. You'll be in the presence of muggles quite often. Meaning, you're more likely to be using firearms than wands and spells."

Harry's fingers twitched, immediately remembering the feel of the M4 in his hands during Oracle's test. It had felt right, he remembered. And he felt capable with the gun. Harry decided that if he was half as skilled with firearms as he was in the dream-like test, he could live with using them in reality.

"You have shown some infiltration capability in the past, but you were aided by your friends. Working with us, you will have little in the way of friends, most of your tools of the trade will have to be procured on-site, and you will have to exercise far more caution than previously imagined. We cannot have an international incident sparked because of this."

"I understand," Harry replied.

Zero quirked his head. "Splendid. You will meet me once your burns have healed. In five days. We will begin your combat training then."

Harry nodded. "Yes, sir."

The suit-wearing man nodded curtly, turned on his heel, and strode toward the Sickbay exit. Presently, the lively little healer bustled back into Harry's space, beaming widely as she opened a burnt orange jar of aquamarine goop, spread across her gloved fingers, and lightly, but liberally, applied whatever salve it was to Harry's face:

"Burn salve, dear. This will have you looking all better in a few days time."

Harry thanked her, but apparently the healer had another gift for Harry, which turned out to be a blood-red potion, which was supposedly taken to boost muscle fitness and help retain cardiovascular health given the heart attack Harry suffered, the heart attack he did not remember occurring.

"You're a surprisingly strong young man, Mr. Sorrow. You'll be discharged later tonight, dear. Hold out until then, can you do that for me?"

Harry huffed exasperatedly. The healer had the same kind but overbearing nature as Molly Weasley, whom Harry loved like a second mother, but sometimes she was a madwoman. And she could be unequivocally _intrusive_, though Harry determined that observation might only have been made because Harry was an unrepentant recluse, rather than Molly being a brown-noser.

He thanked the healer and rested back on his cot, trying to fall asleep, when a voice interrupted his best attempts to lure the sandman:

"You have an interesting mind, Sorrow," Harry turned to face the direction of the voice, and found it was Oracle who was speaking, though it didn't appear so at first, as her eyes were still closed. "Do you remember anything?"

Harry exhaled, taking his time to reply. "Bits and pieces, really. Not much else."

"You know you have been lying to yourself, right?" She questioned, eyes still, "About who you are, about the people you surround yourself with?"

In that instant, a tiny bit of his test came back: the time with Ginny. He distinctly remembered aiming the gun at the poor girl and squeezing the trigger. Then came another apparition of having his lips planted against another pair; soft and yielding, tasting somewhat of mango and the intoxicating, heady scent of cinnamon in the air. Those lips. Hermione's lips.

Wait..._ Hermione's_ lips?

And he remembered tracing the soft outline of her pale lavender lips with his own. In front of Ron. With no care in the world that he was standing there at all.

_God_.

Harry felt compelled to ask the question. "Erm... Oracle?"

"Yes, Sorrow?" She asked lazily, though she was smiling.

"How do you construct your tests?"

"Already coming back to you, is it not?" Oracle mused, seemingly unflustered, "It usually takes weeks before recruits remember anything about the test. But, if you are so inclined to know, I do not really _make_ a test. It is already there in you."

"In me?"

"Most of the test are a combination of fears and wishes. I merely put you into the situation, your mind comes up with the rest. Think of it this way, most of the bad things that happen to you are a product of things you wish to avoid, forget, or altogether keep from happening. I believe that sums up your meeting with the young Miss Weasley."

Harry might have feigned surprise that Oracle remembered the details of the test so vividly, given that he had not seen her in the dream. "And the good things?" He asked, practically already knowing the answer.

"Wish-fulfillment," Oracle answered, shrugging. And that let it set in like an iron weight upon Harry's stomach.

Harry let out a grunt. "So, that means what happened inside the facility was-"

"What do you think, Sorrow?"

So, that was it. The truth. Intractable. It was no secret that Harry and Hermione were close, closer than most normal friends were, but they had always chalked it up to going through the same significant traumatic events which left them with a stronger friendship than most. Besides, it was always clear that she had eyes only for Ron and Harry had practically taken up a vow of celibacy since Ginny broke it off with him. Still, that never stopped overeager outsiders and two-bit tabloid journalists from trying to get a scoop on the very complex relationship between Hogwarts' perceived 'Golden Trio'. But, Harry had always thought they themselves were above such petty gossip and jealousy. Or, if not _they_, at least _he_ was.

Who could have thought Harry's traitorous mind had other ideas?

He wanted to snog Hermione, as strange as it was to say, because he did not _feel_ particularly like doing so. Maybe a distant throb somewhere in the back of his brain that could be attributed to the fact that Hermione was indeed a female, and thus worthy of some attention. But, that was normal, right? A lot of men eventually have sexual thoughts about their best friends when said best friend is female. But, in truth, what occurred in that dream wasn't sexual at all. She had just kissed him. But it felt better than the most sexually gratifying dream Harry could come up with. In his heart of hearts, Harry wanted to have Hermione at _his_ side instead of Ron's.

Now, Harry felt downright wretched.

He wished he had someone to talk to right about now, but it was always, rather ironically, Ron or Hermione that he always went to for counsel. Somehow Harry found going up to Hermione and saying 'I totally snogged you in a dream, what do I do now?' would provide an unpleasant reaction, to begin with. It went without saying telling Ron that would result in even poorer reception.

No. The best option was to keep this idiocy to himself. There was no reason to be a burden upon Ron, and especially not Hermione. Harry would simply do his best to ignore what he thought happened.

And with that decision made, he lay back on his cot and closed his eyes. After a few moments of forcing himself to clear his mind, Harry's eyelids felt heavy. And just before they shut for some richly deserved, albeit fitful, sleep, Oracle said something:

"Lonely boy," she remarked with an almost wistful sigh, and all was silent between the pair once more.

* * *

_7:30 P.M._

It was nighttime when he awoke, or, at least approaching the gloaming. Harry's head hurt quite a lot, and his face added in a nice sting to the already thrumming hum-dum of the original headache. He called for water upon realizing he was absolutely parched and no less famished. A healer, this time far more quiet and subdued than the Mollyesque one of that morning, brought Harry a cup of tea and a bowl of chicken stew. Harry grimaced at the taste of the stew, realizing it was made from military rations, which paled in comparison to anyone's homemade cooking. Nevertheless, Harry persevered, because for what the soup lacked in taste, it more than made up for in proteins and vitamins. Harry finished the bowl feeling a lot better than he had started.

Afterward, he was discharged out from the sickbay and was escorted by a fellow Circus Member, though he was not very talkative and moved with all the grace of a robot, to a very large area that seemed to be left open to the elements. Harry at first thought it was either a Quidditch or Football pitch, but when he saw all manners of activities being done by a wide-array of people, though the single largest by numbers was the sheer amount of people fighting each other, Harry decided otherwise. It was a training ground.

He was entranced by the sight. There were punches, flips, kicks, choking maneuvers. These men and women were not having a friendly scuffle, it was quite violent. Many of them were bruised and bleeding, but smiling through all the pain. It was pure violence. But without hostility. Now, Harry figured either they were masochists and this was as close as they'd get to the S & M videos they'd craved to be involved with since adolescence, or they _genuinely_ enjoyed conflict. Like him. Somehow, Harry guessed it was the latter.

Could it be that these people were like him? People who understood how Harry felt about war and suffering?

Before he could dwell on the possibility, the Circus member who had been herding Harry gave him what appeared to be a tactical knife. Harry took it and fingered the weapon questioningly.

"Say your original codename," the man ordered, and Harry thought it did not bode well for him if he didn't comply.

"Smiley," he whispered, and suddenly felt himself being pulled away from earth in a swirl of magic.

Harry landed unceremoniously on his rump in the backyard of his house. "Bleeding portkeys," he muttered absentmindedly, standing up in the shadows of the trees overlooking the windows of his house. The lights were off, and Harry momentarily felt as though he were entering a haunted house. Of course, he shook that thought away and went to his front door, unlocking it and stepping inside.

Stumbling through the doorway (his face decided to give a most ungainly throb as he did so), Harry made his way to the kitchen, where he dropped a veritable sack of potions and burn salve.

He applied a liberal amount of the salve, as per the healer's instructions, and took the potion. Since moving to the house, Harry had found some time to go shopping, and fixed himself a very large drink, before he went and turned on the muggle television in his drawing room and watched a few episodes of a sitcom that claimed to be about nothing, though, in actuality it was about four _very_ neurotic New Yorkers. It was admittedly escapist and Harry wondered what it would be like to live a normal muggle life like them. No dark wizards, or burns, or complicated and rather Freudian feelings about his best friend. Though, Harry supposed he'd be more disappointed with that life. At least Harry the wizard had some sense of conflict to give him direction that Harry the muggle most assuredly would not.

But, given Harry's fascination with both the wizarding and muggle worlds, Harry envied most muggleborns. They had been able to see a world that Harry only marginally knew until he was an adult. It was not very hard to settle in with muggles, as that could only be truly difficult for pureblood families, but Harry always found himself the outsider, and he knew it.

Ron was very much the wizard's wizard. Even given his laziness, Ron knew far more about magical customs and ideals than Harry could ever hope to.

Hermione, on the other hand, was a jack-of-all-trades. She had one foot firmly entrenched in both worlds, and she knew almost as much as Ron about wizarding custom (though Ron had more practical application of the knowledge than she), and was leagues ahead of Harry in terms of muggle knowledge. All Harry knew that she did not was psychology and philosophy, mainly because he found them useful for profiling killers while Hermione found most of psychology (with the exception of biological bases in psychological thought) to be 'divination-like fancy' and philosophy to be 'logic-circles' that answered nothing and left the reader with increasingly absurd questions. That was not to fault her in lack of trying however, she simply found them to be viciously uninteresting.

Harry was, simply put, a stranger in a strange land everywhere. If Ron had both feet in the magical world and Hermione had one foot in both muggle and magical, Harry was _floating_ somewhere above them, feet catching nothing but air. No matter where he went, there was no part of civilization he could call home. People only understood his alienation in varying degrees: from the completely confused in Ginny; to the befuddled acceptance of Ron; to the constant ribbing of being called a sociopath by Malfoy; to Hermione's restrained understanding, particularly when the Dursleys were mentioned.

Harry had a feeling, though he had long ago forgotten any slights the Dursleys may have cast against him, his friends were not quite so forgiving. He found no reason to begrudge the Dursleys, 'one must learn to let an enemy live'. After all, there were always more enemies to be had. Always another reason to live.

Perhaps they were why the battlefield called to Harry. It was primal. There were no customs to true battle. It was survival. Absolute, brutal, violent survival. His first eleven years had been a life of conflict; hues of gray and black, intermingled with red, and all he had was the desire to be normal. But, now that he was normal, or, at least as normal as could be, Harry found himself dearly missing that conflict. Vernon Dursley, for all the bluster he was, could have easily raised Harry into being a strong man. An emotionless man, but a strong one nonetheless. Maybe if there was no magic, Harry would have found himself in the muggle army, just _itching_ to be dropped into Afghanistan with the Yanks.

Oracle's words came back to him: _And you?_ _You are a product of war, an old killer. Someone who enjoys suffering and combat. Unable to connect to wide-eyed idealists like them._

Maybe Draco was right. Maybe Harry really _was_ a sociopath.

It was with that grim thought that Harry switched the channel to find himself watching a show about a depressed mobster, which, obviously did _wonders_ for Harry's mood. Feeling slightly idiotic, Harry fixed himself another drink and went back to watching the middle-aged man talk to his therapist about... well, about a lot of things, really.

Harry smiled wryly. That's what he needed. A bloody therapist.

Eventually, he shut off the telly and drank himself to sleep, the ache of the burned part of his face long forgotten.

* * *

_September 6, 6:54 A.M._  
_New Irish Metre, Liverpool, UK_

Harry stood atop the roof of the NIM, looking down at the craggy rocks and the boardwalk below, muggles passing by the NIM as if it never even existed. He found it calming up on the tallest building; it felt as if Harry was floating above the world, in an earth of his own construction, where everyone and everything was far away but for the rising sun and biting morning air. Harry still had to get used to the cooler climate of the midlands, but he felt he enjoyed it more than London.

This morning, Harry was far away from everyone and everything, approaching a state of Zen, he would have called it. It was relaxing, calming, as if he were lightyears away from the NIM and the hectic auror schedule, and was simply roaming a desolate battlefield, one that had been recently fought in. He imagined scorch marks on the peaty grass and upturned earth from spells and cannons, the clattering of wands and guns, strewn wild and long. It was soothing.

But Harry's quiet contemplation was broken by an Irish drawl:

"Are you going to jump, mate?" It sounded worried.

Harry growled. "No. I'm thinking, Seamus. Leave me alone."

"Well, that's not happening," Seamus disagreed, chuckling, "I might try to find my peace up here, too. That's what Dean says you're doing and I could use a little bit of that in my hectic schedule as well. It's near a bloody war-zone down there, as well. They're assembling some of the Soldier Unit Aurors to get down to Kandahar."

"What? Afghanistan? Why?"

Seamus plopped down next to Harry and gave him an incredulous stare. "Bloody 'ell, mate, do you even _watch_ the newscast?"

"No. I was busy doing important things." Harry replied. He was sometimes thankful that he was a wizard, given that he was able to glamour himself up enough that no one noticed Harry's face had been quite badly burned two nights earlier.

"The president of Afghanistan survived an assassination attempt yesterday," Seamus said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, "A gunman posed as one of the members of their army and tried to gun Karzai down. Bloke got killed in the return fire, but it's believed he has wizarding ties."

"Really?"

"The U.S. isn't quite happy with that. Apparently, a British-French terrorist cell called _Philosophe_ is behind the attacks. Barking mad for owning up to a _failed_ assassination attempt, but, hey, they're terrorists. Who knows what the fuck they're after, am I right?"

Harry quirked up an eyebrow, which was the burned one. He winced slightly but Seamus did not seem to notice. "They send confirmation that they were behind the attacks?" Seamus nodded.

"All over the Wizarding Wireless this morning. Kept talking about how the conflict in Iraq was pushing the agenda of the American Military-Industry something or another by providing a 'green economy' off the multiple wars in the Middle East."

"Military-Industrial Complex," Harry corrected, remembering having read about it in one of Hermione's many history books. "Why try kill Karzai, then? He's just trying to keep the peace, isn't he?"

Seamus shrugged. "Apparently they don't think so. They say he's a Western-installed puppet to keep a fruitless war going for another decade."

"So, what does that mean to us?"

Seamus snorted. "It means, many of our Homicide guys are the ones with combat experience, meaning their shipping out in a group of thirty Aurors to assist the Yanks and the Frenchies in Afghanistan. That means we're spread real thin. And Rodgers knows that you were something of a wonderboy with the SCU in London. Meaning, you and I are on Homicide duty for the next week."

"And what does that entail?"

"Pretty much the same thing as we've been doing. Still sniffing around drug crews and the red-light district, but instead of doing hand-to-hands and taking pictures, we follow the bodies." Seamus tapped his forehead knowingly, "In fact, we got a call-in today. Possible drug execution, you know? Victim's an Agilian abuser, father's a highly influential musician, and we think it might connect to ol' Damian Shankly. All we're missing is the bleeding _gun_. This case is all major-like; I reckon it's the case of the year if we pull it off, Potter."

"Where are we headed?"

"Walton," Seamus replied, "man lives in a pretty secluded, magical, posh area. You know, real gentry-like."

Harry nodded. "Alright, let's go."

"No, no, no, not yet," Seamus grinned, "you're not bloody ready. This isn't London, my friend, we're allowed to carry firearms, the Ministry is more... lax up in the Midlands. But, it's in good taste to carry one around. Your wand is too much of a giveaway anyways, when it comes down to the scrum. More than eighty percent of the people here _haven't_ had formal magical training due to the cost of attending Hogwarts. As you know, most of the magical world isn't really well-off. Getting a wand often signifies one of two things: you're rich, or you're an Auror. And if you're by those projects, you're likely an Auror. So Dean and I will help you get you a gun, I guarantee you'll like one of 'em bad boys."

Harry's fingers instinctively twitched once more, as if he were getting ready to hold his assault rifle from the test. "I don't doubt I will," he replied, allowing Seamus to pull him up to the feet as the duo headed toward the exit to meet with Dean.

* * *

_7:47 A.M._  
_NIM - Armory_

"Bloody hell, Harry!" Seamus exclaimed, "You can't have _that_ one!"

Harry looked up from the M4 he was carrying. It looked very similar to the one Harry had been carrying in his dream.

"Why not?" He asked, confused. "They're all the same, aren't they."

"Yes, well, muggles don't really like it when you go walking down the street carrying an assault rifle. And, if you were, you could at least use a British Rifle! We're not Yanks," Seamus grinned. Dean, who had been perusing the bladed section of the armory gave Harry an amused once-over:

"Imagine that, Harry Potter goes for the biggest gun he sees. Sure you're not overcompensating for something?"

"How about you ask Ginny?" Harry tested switching out the magazines, exercising caution, and checking the safety for any already-loaded bullets. Dean chuckled softly, before returning to his knives.

Seamus furrowed his brows. "That's quite a handle of a gun you've got there, Harry. Sure you've never used 'em before?"

"Quite," Harry grunted, "I'm assuming this is too large? I'll go and check the handguns, then."

Harry settled into searching through the vast array of weapons the NIM armory housed, far more than the OIM could boast. It was a known fact that wizarding police had to be especially careful with their investigations, considering there was a veil of secrecy surrounding their entire breadth of operation, so all firearms had to be fitted with sound suppressors. Harry had initially wondered why a gun and a simple silencing charm had never been used. Seamus, of course, was only too eager to answer. Since firearms were relatively easy to acquire if one really had the desire and money for one, most firearm companies employed a few wizards who had helped create anti-silencing and summoning charms onto the guns through many of their machines responsible for building the unit. Nearly impossible to break. Needless to say, it would be quite hard to find a firearm without all the extra tinseling to keep magicals from turning a gun into a silent killing machine.

He eventually settled on a Ruger handgun, fitted with a sound suppressor and a threaded end barrel.

"Very you," was Seamus' only comment on that, while looking at himself in the mirror, holding his own handgun and striking a pose.

Dean looked up again and cracked a smile at the Irishman's antics, and said, as if introducing Seamus: "Head. Dick Head."

Seamus ignored Dean's barb and turned to Harry. "If you're ready, we simply need to get you signed up and then we can be on our merry way, yes?"

Harry nodded, letting himself be led out by Seamus.

* * *

_8:12 A.M._  
_Walton, Liverpool, UK_

The trip to Walton was uneventful, other than that Seamus introduced Harry to another bit of muggle machinery in the magical world: automobiles. Rather than apparition, of which there weren't many designated apparition points within Liverpool, which finally explained why Harry had so much trouble apparating the night he, Ron, and Helene had found Freya. Seamus was, for all intents and purposes, a terrifyingly bad driver, stating it was usually the muggleborn Dean that did all the driving for the two. Harry, who had some experience with driving as he applied for a license post-Hogwarts, took the wheel instead, letting Seamus, whom knew the streets far more soundly than Harry could ever hope for, lead him in the right direction.

They passed a few schools, and the Atlantic, but there was nothing too special in the drive, until they found the area they were supposed to go. Many muggles were led to believe there was simply some spare patches of land a few miles away from Goodison Park, but, Harry soon found, it was a community of rather well-to-do wizards, one of which was the celebrity father of a very dead daughter.

Seamus told Harry to stop in front of a large white palatial home, where a few other Aurors milled about. They did not look particularly interested in working the case, however, when Seamus yelled at one of the many Aurors to stop gawking at the father and get a move-on.

At the sound of reproach, many of the Aurors did go back to work, parting like the red sea in front of a worried-looking middle-aged man, staring intently at the coming Aurors. Harry immediately recognized the man, not by name, but by face. He had headlined at the Yule Ball eight years prior: the lead bassist of the Weird Sisters.

"Bless my soul," he exclaimed, "_Harry Potter_?"

Harry, as per usual, was bashful in the face of being recognized by someone of immense fame themselves. "Erm... hello, sir. We're here to-"

"-Investigate my daughter's death," the words came out piteously strangled, and Seamus adopted a look of troubled compassion for the older man, who pulled himself together quickly, dabbing at tears in his eyes. "I know. You must know, however, that I am very thankful you are investigating it, Mister Potter. I am sure you'll solve it and give Irina the justice she deserved."

Irina Cautermall, the daughter of Roger Cautermall, was the one, Harry soon found, that ended up dead two nights prior. Her body was not found until late last night, in a ditch nearby Anfield. Seamus made a joke that it must have been a football rivalry that ended up with Miss Cautermall dead, but Harry merely gave the Irishman a _look_. It was believed, however, despite the distance, Miss Cautermall was murdered in her home, for reasons unknown, though many of the narcotics Aurors had said that her name had been mentioned quite a few times on the street before anyone knew Irina was dead.

First responders had left Seamus a note, telling him they believed the kidnapping occurred in the kitchen.

So, Harry and Seamus made their way through the palatial mansion, moving from well-constructed room, high-vaulted ceilings that made most of the home seem like a very comfortable cathedral. The drawing room was easily two-and-a-half times the size of the one in Harry's house, which opened up into the kitchen, which was far more modern than anything Harry had ever seen before. One would think it would clash with the gothic appearance of most of the house, but it somehow worked. Mister Cautermall left the duo to do their work just as a team of reporters arrived on scene. Harry ducked far away from any cameras, and turned into the kitchen, Seamus following with a thoughtful look upon his face.

Harry quickly scanned the kitchen area. Seamus noticed the bullethole through the glass of one of the low-hanging windows at the back end of the kitchen: a little breakfast nook. Sunlight pilfered in through the minutely disturbed glass. Harry nodded at the bullet hole:

"That look a little off to you?" He questioned; Seamus blinked:

"Yeah. A shot like that would have only worked out if the shooter were three feet tall," the Irishman cocked his head to the side, "think he could've been crouching?"

"Looks like our best option right about now," Harry answered, moving to all the windows and shutting the blinds.

"What are you doing?" Seamus asked.

"Just try to make it as dark in this room as possible," Harry replied, intent on explaining himself later. Seamus complied, closing all the blinds until it was as dark as could be in the kitchen. Harry reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a tiny bottle of something Seamus did not recognize. He lifted a shrinking spell and sprayed it in the air before handling his wand from his wrist holster. "_Atra Lumos_." Instantly, a blue light illuminated the hardwood floors of the darkened room.

"What the hell is that?"

"You ever seen how the muggle police work?" Harry questioned, alternating between spraying the contents of the bottle and moving his wand and the light around the room. Seamus shook his head in the negative. "Well, criminals will often try to clean up blood and bodily fluids, well enough that there appears to be nothing to the naked eye. But there are always little bits left over that the killer wasn't completely able to clean up after, even with Magic.

"This little puppy is a muggle invention called _Luminol_, which helps make residue of bodily fluids-blood stains in particular-visible with the help of black light. Which is the spell." Harry sprayed once more, inspecting another area in front of the icebox, which revealed a glowing white bit of spatter across the floors and the refrigerator. It did not take a genius to realize that was blood residue. Harry grinned up at his partner, whom had a gobsmacked look upon his face:

"And there's the rub," Harry smirked.

"Mate, you have _got_ to show me how to do that."

Harry did have to admit, while idly taking pictures of the blood spatter, he was confused. "Why take a musician's daughter out; it seems like too much hassle and it would draw attention to the drug crew if they were the ones to off her."

Seamus shrugged and dropped his voice (as a _Muffliato_ would be too obvious) so no one but Harry could hear. "Rumor had it that Miss Cautermall was a bit of an Agilian junkie-" he paused to laugh, "-dunno why _anyone_ would turn to that shite, you'd have to barking mad to try it! But, hey, I guess that's the rich and famous for you, right?"

Harry laughed hollowly, feeling a little bit peaky himself. He hadn't taken his fix in quite some time and it was beginning to show, he thought. Perhaps he'd have to visit Helene once more. "The rich and famous, indeed," Harry repeated, slowly.

"-And this Agilian Junkie was in deep with the Crew, complete rebel, not a 'respectable daughter' of Mister Cautermall's. Apparently, she and her father were estranged, and she usually stayed out on the streets, though Mister Cautermall would let her stay whenever she came by." Seamus' face contorted into one of sympathy, though if it was for the father or the daughter, Harry could not tell. "Some Aurors say she turned tricks with the Crew for a bit of that Agilian."

"Turned... tricks?" Harry questioned, confused.

Seamus all but slapped himself in the head. "Yank muggle term, sorry-" now he placed a silencing spell aroung them. "-She resorted to prostitution."

"Oh," Harry voice before furrowing his brows. "Always strange to hear someone that rich would end up... well... 'turning tricks', as you say."

"Well, gotta tell like it is, mate. Apparently, Irina was a favorite of Damian Shankly's, and no sooner than she started to prostitute herself, Irina was set up with a pretty nice apartment. Easy to live in. Well, word is she got into a bit of a tiff with Damian, _allegedly_, allegedly," Seamus calmed Harry down, who perked up at the name, "Thought that staying in her apartment was too scary, so she came to stay with daddy, whom she told all of this to. My guess is that when Roger went out for a gig in Newcastle two nights ago, she was home. The crew knew and sent a mook to drop her."

"My guess is he used a gun outside the window, do you have pictures?"

Seamus nodded, handing Harry a file that a forensic Auror had given him earlier. "Check these out."

Harry opened the file to find pictures of a very pretty, and very dead brunette. She had an Eastern European allure to her, which would have made her dark-lidded eyes all the more attractive if they had not been so wide and glassy. They were autopsy pictures, so, Irina was left nude. There were no indications of any sign of struggle from both the pictures and the crime scene.

"Any defense wounds?" Harry asked.

Seamus shook his head. "Coroner says no. No blood under the fingernails, no ligature marks, no bruising whatsoever. It was practically an assassination. Very little to go by way of anything. Seems like the assailant shot through the glass, picked the lock of the door, perhaps used rudimentary magic to clean up the blood and dragged the body out."

Harry sighed. "Well, fuck."

Seamus blew a bit of air through his teeth in agreement. "Fuck."

Harry looked down at the blood spatter and nodded. "How tall was she?"

"One-hundred sixty centimeters. Five-feet, three-inches dead."

"Where were the gunshot wounds?"

Seamus looked over the file on the floor. "One in the side, just below the liver, the second was the kill-shot. At an upward angle through the heart; lucky shot, probably, but the autopsy says the bullet cleaved the aorta."

"Any one of those lot out there-" Harry pointed to the multiple Aurors and MLE Officers standing outside, gathering material evidence in places that didn't really matter. "-about that height?" Seamus shrugged and took a few steps across the way to where the Aurors were.

"Any one of you lot five-foot-three?"

Seamus question was met with (quite rightly so) a few confused stares and a quick squeak in response. "I am!" A tiny, skinny little oriental MLE officer answered. Seamus gave her a quick once over and beckoned her into the kitchen, where she let out another terrified squeak once catching sight of Harry, whom merely let out a long-suffering sigh at the woman's antics.

"Tell her to stand in front of the refrigerator," Harry advised his partner as he exited the kitchen to the living room, where there were glass doors beset in smooth wooden frames leading to the outdoor patio. Seamus eyed the entire scene with something akin to awe, as if he were taking mental notes on what to do if he were ever placed in a similar situation.

Harry went outside around the back onto the wooden patio after throwing back the curtains on the windows, making his way onto the grass, still wet with the morning dew, and to the window with the bullet hole in it. Seamus nodded and placed the woman in front of the refrigerator as Harry unholstered his firearm and pointed it through the chipped hole at the mousy MLE Officer. She made an 'eep' noise and Seamus told her to calm down as he drew a line with his wand straight from her abdomen, right underneath her liver area, to Harry's Ruger at the window. From there, the Irishman went back to the woman and drew an exit wound, straight into the refrigerator door.

Seamus' face took on a contemplative look, so Harry decided to toss him a bone. "Open the icebox!"

The other Auror complied, reshaping the line to fit the fridge. It still didn't look right.

"Maybe she was facing the icebox," Harry suggested, "turn Miss-" he paused, never catching the woman's name:

"Lee," she introduced, a tad breathlessly.

"Turn Miss Lee around and reshape the line. Are you sure the entrance wound wasn't through the back?"

Seamus doubled back and looked over the file, slapping his forehead of reading. "Sorry, Harry, don't know what I was reading."

Harry smiled back, reassuringly. "Don't worry. Happens to the best of us."

Seamus nodded and turned Officer Lee around, who blushed at the stubbled Irishman. Seamus redrew the line and looked into the open refrigerator. "Think they could've used a _Reparo_?"

"If they did," Harry replied, "they would've left the bullet behind. _Accio_s are too hard to accomplish for someone who hasn't had any formal magical training. Took me nearly a month or so to learn it with Hermione's help Fourth Year, so I think it would be tough for this guy to learn it."

"Hey," Seamus started, "how is Hermione? She still dating Ron?"

"Uh... yeah," Harry said, heading back up the patio and into the kitchen, "still dating."

The hazel-haired Irishman laughed while shooing the MLE officer away. "Who'd have thought that bickering_ Ron and Hermione_ were the only ones to keep a steady relationship? You and Ginny seemed like shoo-ins for couple of the century. What happened to you two?"

"We sort of... grew up," Harry shrugged, "and as much as I love the two, I don't think Ron or Hermione have gotten to that stage."

"What stage?"

"When they realize how fundamentally different they really are," Harry replied, sticking his head into the refrigerator for anything that looked out of place. "And then, they start to grate on each other's nerves. It's no trouble, really, it happens to all but the best of couples. And even then..."

Wait, why was he saying that? Harry knew Ron and Hermione loved each other, didn't they? Or had they just not yet come to the same conclusion he had with Ginny?

Seamus quickly recovered from Harry's explanation. "Mighty cynical of you, mate. Sure you aren't just afraid of losing them? I mean, sure Hermione's grown into quite the woman now she's older and Ron's... well I _guess_ she thinks Ron's attractive, but seriously, bros before hoes."

"What are you, twelve?" Harry snipped at the rhyme.

Seamus raised his hands up in surrender.

"In any case, I _am_ a cynical person," Harry drawled, noticing a little chip in the siding of the refrigerator, "and I'm not afraid of losing their friendship; I can't help but feel the two are settling for each other from time to time... hey, take a look at this."

Harry moved back to let Seamus take a look at the chip. "Thinking what I'm thinking?"

"_Accio bullet_," Seamus said, which, Harry admitted, sounded stupid. But it was not quite so dumb when a shattered and impacted piece of metal found its way through the tiny hole into Seamus' hands. "Well, if you think they're settling, why don't you talk to them about it?"

Harry snorted, survey the crushed metal, with a bit of blood still upon it. "Christ, Seamus," Harry reverted to Mugglespeak without really noticing, "You've never had Ron mad at you, have you?"

"A few times," Seamus winced.

Harry nodded patronizingly. "Yeah, _that's_ pretty bad. Now multiply it by ten, and that's Hermione when you try to convince her that a major life-choice of hers is monumentally wrong."

"Smart girl never likes being wrong, who'd have thought?"

"No, nothing like that. She can admit to being _wrong_. Though after a lot coaxing, of course. Stubborn as a mule, that one," Harry assessed lightly, earning a chuckle from Seamus, who placed the bullet into a small, plastic bag, "No, not that. More like she's got an independent streak a mile wide and I'd rather let her figure it out herself then spend three days nursing my jaw and sporting a shiner. Woman's got an _arm_."

"Bullet's really damaged, dunno if we can reconstruct it to match a piece," Seamus said doubtfully, changing the subject to the crushed metal in the plastic baggy.

Harry smirked, unholstering his handgun once more, he racked the slide backwards and showed the Irishman the bullet in the chamber. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but there are _two_ parts to a bullet, aren't there?"

"_Mother_-" Seamus started with a grin, "Think he left it out back?"

"Only one way to find out," Harry replied, scampering out the back door with Seamus following in his wake.

The two headed towards the grass around the window and searched down on the ground for anything golden or silver poking out. It seemed as though the lawn had not been cut in quite some time, which made the job slightly harder, forcing both men to crouch and search with their hands raking the grass for any sign of a bullet casing. Two more minutes of searching yielded something, something that caused a full-blown grin to erupt on Seamus' face:

"Well would you look at this little wanker!" He exclaimed holding two small brass casings up to Harry's eye level.

Harry grinned, shark-toothed as he pointed at a smudge that looked remarkable like a latent fingerprint on one of the casings. "Brilliant."

"I guess this _wasn't_ the case of the century," Seamus muttered, dispirited.

Harry clapped him on the back. "Cheer up, mate. There'll be more to come."

* * *

_10:06 A.M.  
NIM - Narcotics Unit_

"Oh, Denny, Denny, Dennis!" Seamus called, leading Harry into the Narcotics Unit that had become his new home over the past few days, "Have I got a story for you!" Both Harry and Seamus pulled chairs away from empty cubicles and sat next to an obviously flustered Dennis Creevey, whom was going over photos and cursing the fates for giving his brother all the photo-making skills. Harry and Seamus were a little bit bored, unwilling to do their write-up for the Homicide Case and waiting for the test results on the material evidence of the gun and blood to come back.

Since they had little to do, Seamus suggested a brilliant idea: to go bother Dennis, whom loved the Weird Sisters and would be heartbroken to know two neanderthals, and not he, got to meet the bassist of the band.

"What?" The blond asked, looking rather peckish.

"Why, Harry, he doesn't look too chuffed to see us!" Seamus tittered in a schoolgirlish manner.

Harry smiled wickedly. "No, partner of mine, not chuffed at all." He turned to Dennis, "It's alright, he's just trying to make up for his personal defects." At which Seamus gave the Potter a dirty look.

"Personal defects, what personal defects?"

"Your capricious sobriety, terrifying smell, impacted teeth, your fastidious devotion to art of arseholery, and of course, your negligible Irish ancestry." Dennis roared with laughter, Seamus joined in as well. Dean, who started listening in, clapped Harry on the back:

"Say, Potter's not such a pansy anymore," Dean grinned, addressing some of the onlooking Aurors "I remember Hogwarts. 'Uh... erm... maybe... uhhh...' was pretty much every other word that came out of this tosser's mouth. And don't even get me started on the nightmares and the Great PMS streak of '95!"

"What?" Harry asked, eyes narrowed playfully.

"Before Ron and Hermione convinced you to start the DA. 'Everyone hates me!'-" Dean began.

"-well, they did," Harry defended weakly.

"No one believes me that Voldemort is back!"

"No one _did_."

"'Hermione and Ron are the only ones understand me!'"

"They _were_."

Some of the older Aurors were chuckling at Harry's expense, whom decided it was best to steer the ship back on course:

"I wanted to beat this cock's head in with a beater's bat when he kept saying that his mother said I was insane," Harry mock-glared at Seamus, who looked apologetic. "What kind of mummy's boy are you?" Harry adopted a Yank southern drawl from a film he had seen years ago with Ginny. "Mama always said life is like a box o'chocolates-" his voice returned to it's gentle ribbing tone, "-and you _believed_ her."

"I think all that Guinness she was downing when she was preggars went to your head," Dennis added, smirking.

"Ouch," Seamus muttered dispiritedly, though he was chuckling. Harry rounded on Dean, who was still guffawing:

"And, you!" Harry drawled, "how did it feel to know you were second place whenever you snogged Ginny?"

Dean stopped and adopted a face of pain, thumping his chest, where his heart would be. "You wound, Harry, right... here!" He thumped his chest one more time for good measure, then ceased his ministrations and grinned. "How did it feel knowing you were second place to a ginger?"

Harry suddenly felt confused. "What?"

"Well, Hermione obviously chose Ron over you," Seamus remarked in Dean's stead, "I mean, red hair's attractive on Ginny, but, seriously mate, the only thing that could flatter Ron's face is a paper bag. Losing to him, that's gotta sting a little."

"Ron's not unattractive," Dennis said, "not for a bloke at least."

All Aurors gave him an unreadable look. Dennis coughed nervously while Harry merely raised an eyebrow and turned back to Dean.

Actually, it did sting. But it hadn't until that _bleeding_ test Oracle had given him. "Not really. Never had interest in her."

"Bollocks," Seamus shot, "the two of you were closer than children in a Chinese sweatshop."

Dean looked honestly affronted this time. "What is it with you and your metaphors?"

"They're called analogies, Dean, do try harder," Seamus shot back jovially, turning back to Harry. "Never? Not once?"

"Honest to Merlin truth, never." Harry turned, eager to end the conversation, "Dennis, Dean: have you got any tidbits of info from the street for us?"

"Depends on what you want us to catch," Dean replied, suddenly all business. The other Aurors who had gathered for the banter between the three Aurors and one MLE officer sighed and went back to their work, seeing as all the fun was over with.

Harry shrugged. "Anything on Irina Cautermall? Or, at least, anyone mouthing off about killing a girl lately?"

"Irina Cautermall?" Dennis blurted out, rather suddenly. "The daughter of Roger Cautermall? The bassist?"

"The very same," Seamus grinned like a shark, "got to meet him and everything. He was tripping all over himself to be grateful to Harry, too."

Dennis eyed Harry with no small amount of jealousy. "Potter, you magnificent bastard! I'd have killed to be on that case!"

"You would have?" Seamus mock-interrogated, waggling his eyebrows, "Would you have killed his daughter to get on this case?"

"Ignore the Fetal Alcohol Baby, he's right stupid without the day's first potato," Harry quipped as he turned back to Dean, "you got anything fitting that description? Seamus says it's possible she was a Shankly Crew hit."

Dean furrowed his brows for a moment in deep thought, trying to think where he might have heard something about Miss Cautermall. "Hmm..." suddenly his dark eyes alighted in remembrance, "Oh, yeah! Nothing about Irina Cautermall, but we did hear Turk mouthing off about a girl he 'had the time with'."

"Özek?" Harry questioned; Dean nodded.

Seamus shrugged. "Sounds a bit thin, Dean, mate. Could've been talking about any random girl he was shagging."

"Please," Dean scoffed, "that man is a grade-A sociopath, and we've established that he isn't quite... _capable_ of doing that."

Harry's brow furrowed. "He isn't... why?"

Dennis looked amused as Dean sputtered. "What our friend is trying to say is that Özek is homosexual. And not a very good one, at that, would rather kill than shag, if you catch my drift."

"Oh. Ah," Harry said, nodding, not knowing what else to do as Dean howled 'Blasphemy' in an overly-scandalized manner, before going onto say that a man who chose _anything_ over sex was no man at all, but a monster.

"A poofter?" Seamus exclaimed, ignoring Dean, "When did you guys figure this out and how come I didn't know?"

"Because your ears are full of shite. Nobody can unblock that stink," Dennis retorted. "It's not exactly uncommon knowledge. Talk to any of the fiends, they usually know."

Seamus looked chastened as Dean spoke:

"Here, I can get you in contact with an informant of mine, all right?" Dean started, "He'll get you whatever you need to know and then some. Just remember to give him some of the shinies."

"Thanks, Deany-boy," Seamus turned to Harry. "Interesting, interesting. Want to go have a look-see? Find out of Özek is our guy?" Harry nodded, "Thanks, mates. I owe you both. First drinks' are on me on Friday-" the other Aurors all perked up at the prospect of free alcohol. "Oi, _them_, not you! Buy your own shandy you fuckin' louts!" All of them let out a collective sigh and went back to work as Harry and Seamus turned back towards the elevators, knowing they'd be sitting on their hands for a few days until test results came back in.

* * *

_September 8, 2002. 11:07 A.M.  
Irola Towers - Courtyard_

"After this, I reckon you're gonna have to become mighty good at glamouring yourself up," Seamus grumbled, resting in the passenger's seat of the BMW sedan both men sat in, Seamus' feet propped up on the dash. "We aren't going to be on friendly terms with these blokes soon enough. Bloody assassination attempts in bloody Afghanistan."

Harry merely raised his head, the only thing that gave Seamus any indication that the DCI had heard him. Seamus looked on the people milling about the entrance to the courtyard, and turned his green-brown eyes to Harry:

"You think it'll ever end?" He started, "This, I mean. This constant war between us and them."

"Aurors and dealers?"

"It's more than that, and you know it, Harry."

Harry turned his eyes back to the road, sipping from a cup of tea the two had stopped for on the way to the Towers. "Yeah, I know."

Things were silent, then suddenly, Seamus laughed harshly, startling Harry. "So, the fucking war ends, and I'm dancing in the scotch mist the next morning, and there I am thinking, 'hey, we won!'. You-Know-Wh-_fuck it_! Voldemort!-was dead, you were our hero, god's in his heaven, all's right with the fucking world. And now, look at the poor sods. They're just our next big problem. And then there'll be something after that, probably another bleedin' _Voldemort_, and then what? It bloody wears me out, Harry-boy."

It was hard for Harry to _not_ be taken aback by Seamus' outburst. "I... I didn't know you felt so strongly about this."

"I don't," Seamus muttered, "I'm the opposite. I'm too fucking tired to _care_ anymore."

"You're talking to the wrong person then, I'm just as tired as you are," Harry replied, shifting in his seat for a more comfortable position. "You know, Hermione told me to start taking muggle classes once we finished Voldemort."

"Yeah?"

"Since I am an Auror, I really only took philosophy and psychology classes, alongside literature and a few Forensic Science classes. I learned, once, that peace is an unnatural state in human society."

"Who said that?" Seamus questioned, intrigued.

"Immanuel Kant. He lived a long time ago," Harry answered, "things simply do not line up the way we want them to. War is how we function, and while the desire for peace is natural, the actual realization is nigh impossible. Because of that, everyone has to work towards creating peace, because it will never 'naturally' occur."

Seamus wryly smiled. "Noble reason to live for."

"Yeah, it is," Harry agreed hollowly.

A companionable silence fell between the two partners as they looked upon the fiends passing by Tower entrances. Suddenly, there was a knocking at the window. Harry looked back to see a disheveled-looking man peering into the car. He allowed Seamus to unlock the doors, allowing the grizzled man in. Harry surveyed him through the rear-view mirror. He was a man who appeared to be in his late thirties, with stringy, hay-blond hair and mischievous brown eyes:

"Daniel Fletcher," he greeted, "everyone calls me Fletch, though."

"Fletch, huh? DS Seamus Finnigan; this jaunty prick over here is DCI Harry Potter," Seamus said, leaning back so he could face the intruder without taking his feet of the dash, causing his sunglasses to fall askew, "Have you got anything for us, Fletch?"

"Depends," the man shrugged, obviously trying to mask his awe at being in the same car as Harry.

Seamus looked pleadingly at Harry, whom sighed and handed the stubbled man two galleons. "Thank ye', sir," Fletch responded with a flourish, "now you're looking for the person who did in that Cautermall girl, right? The bandman's daughter."

Harry nodded slowly, "Yes, indeed."

"Well, I've been checking out Özek like Dean asked me to, and he's been carryin' on about some girl he done in," Fletch started unsympathetically, "talk about how she a rich girl and how she screamed. Now, that sounds like a euphemism for some bonking, but we all know that Özek isn't exactly... you know-"

"-He's a bit of a ginger beer," Seamus replied. Harry shot him a disapproving look, at which Seamus replied: "What? Did you expect me to be nice about it? I'm not even nice to _you_." Harry shrugged, conceding it was a fair point.

"Yeah, a ginger beer," Fletch nodded sagely. "I do believe I heard the term 'Irina' come up once in a while."

"You do?" Harry asked, "Willing to testify?"

"Um, no, sir," Fletch snorted, "I got too many problems already and I'm only helping you because I need the shinies; testifying in court would only paint a target on my back, sir." Harry nodded:

"Looks like we'll have to get the information out ourselves," Harry told Seamus, whom nodded and thanked Fletch for the info. The informant stepped out of the car and scampered away as Seamus' mobile rang:

"Finnigan," he answered. A voice on the other end, that sounded remarkably like Dennis, spoke unintelligible words to Harry's ears. Seamus made a few 'uh-huh's and 'yeah's before snapping the phone shut.

"What's the news?"

"Özek's our guy. Fingerprint matches his. Thank Merlin somebody on the Liverpool Wizard Council had the common sense to ink all magical babies and convicts. I can't believe London doesn't do that."

"We do for convicts, not babies, though. St. Mungo's says Magical signature is enough," Harry replied, "So, I assume we're waiting on the go-ahead from Rodgers?"

"Any second now," Seamus said, returning to lounging lazily. "Hey, I guess I can say all I want about London's naïveté, but I have to admit, you guys are a damn slight more civilized than us down there. No one's probably even heard of the bleedin' drug war down there."

"No, they don't," Harry agreed, "but... it's not by choice."

"By choice?"

Harry grunted in an affirmative. "People are only as moral as the times and the environment allow them to be. Take away London Rules, and we're all just cannibals: eat each other."

"You really aren't a very optimistic one, are you?" Seamus questioned with a raised eyebrow. "I guess because I saw magicals rise up to fight Voldemort that I'm supposed to believe in that rubbish about the innate goodness of man. I don't know. I _think_ people will do the right thing when the time comes." Seamus laughed. "Merlin, I sounded sure of myself there, didn't I?"

Harry laughed, too:

"Ron and Hermione think that way, too, though they're much more sure of it than you are," he replied. "I guess I'm just a bit delusional. All that about mankind being good, and second chances? I've seen people redeem themselves, but they're usually an exception, not the rule. Others... just can't. Some people just aren't _capable_ of redemption. They don't _deserve_ redemption."

Seamus flashed Harry a knowing smile. "Are you sure we're talking metaphorically, anymore?"

Harry cocked his head to the side, confused. "What?"

"Never mind," Seamus replied, still wearing that smile.

"Well... It's the one thing I just can't see eye-to-eye with Ron or Hermione about."

A phone rang. This time, it was Harry's.

"DCI Potter," Harry answered.

"Potter," Anne barked, sounding every bit the Auror Commander she was. "Dean will be along in five, with a warrant. Once there, move in, take him in. We've got more than enough evidence on this one."

"Yes, ma'am," Harry said, snapping his mobile shut and biding Seamus stay in the car. They did not bother with glamours, the most Harry did was adjust his coat and push his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

No less than five minutes later, a light gray BMW, the typical car used by Aurors at the NIM, pulled up behind Harry's car. In his rearview mirror, Harry could make out Dean in the driver's seat behind him.

He nodded to Seamus and both men stepped out of the car, stalking over to Dean, who procured the the small piece of paper. "Court order," said the dark-skinned man, "we've got him in the bag for these murders."

"Smashing," Harry drawled. "Let's go."

Seamus opened Dean's door for him, allowing the Auror to hop out in a sprightly manner, handing the warrant over to Harry. "Well, Harry, Seamus tells me you did some downright Sherlock sleuthing to find out where the bullet came from, so I think you can take this one in." He paused, a malicious grin forming on his face. "That, and I totally want to see Özek's face when the Wizard-Who-Won puts him in bracelets."

"Smashing," Harry drawled, leading the the trio to the guards standing at the entrance. The guards eyed him warily, causing the DCI to smirk. "DCI Potter. These two are Detective-Sergeants' Finnigan and Thomas. We have a warrant for the arrest of one Ahmet Özek. Kindly point us in his direction."

The two men hesitated. Dean's eyes narrowed. "What are you waiting for? Step to!"

They looked down the courtyard, at a red-haired man Harry did not remember ever seeing before stood conversing with the man whom looked like D'Arcy. The red-haired man caught the eye of one of the guards, nodding almost imperceptibly at the guards, who let the trio through.

Once inside the courtyard, Harry, Seamus, and Dean made a beeline for Özek, but not before Harry locked eyes with the red-haired man, leaning against a boarded-up door. Suddenly, he remembered him. From pictures Dennis had shown him.

Damian Shankly. The so-called 'leader' of the Shankly Crew.

They looked at each other for a moment, and Harry felt as if he were being assessed. Harry also checked over the man. Tall, lean, muscular. They were only secondary to the man's cold, gray eyes. There was nothing inside them. He was completely, and totally internally vapid. They were ruthless eyes, calculating the loss of Özek compared to the gain of keeping the 'business' clean of deaths. Özek would take the fall, Harry knew. That's how men like Shankly worked. Better for the entire party should one man take the blame for his own stupidity.

There was something distinctly Utilitarian about it all.

Harry held gaze with the red-haired man for a second longer, when, suddenly, all the soulnesses and yawning gloom hidden behind the man's crystal-colored eyes disappeared, with only guarded politeness in them and a placid smile left in its wake.

Harry felt the need to look away, and turned back to Seamus and Dean, both of whom had taken point, and were currently stomping towards Özek, a short, but powerful-looking Turkish man with wispy, dark-brown hair and beady black eyes who sat upon a stoop, talking to a young white male whom Harry remember as 'Hawk', though his real name eluded the DCI at the moment.

"Hey, Turk!" Someone called, "Rozzers here to see you!"

Özek looked up, catching sight of the three grim-faced Aurors approaching him. Harry, Seamus, and Dean tensed for a moment. Whenever someone just called something out that casually, Harry always had to brace for the target to do a runner. But, surprisingly, rather than taking off in the other direction, Özek walked right towards the guard of three with a chipper smile on his face.

"Took you long enough," he eyed Harry, and with an ever-widening grin, he spoke. "Got yourself a fan, there, Harry."

Harry pursed his lips. This was not the first time someone had uttered a phrase along those lines to him. Bulstrom had said something very similar just a few weeks earlier. Who was this fan? And why was it that his fanaticism involved the deaths of five muggleborn children, nearly six, and the daughter of Roger Cautermall? "Ahmet Özek, I am arresting you for the murder of Irina Cautermall, You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?"

Özek remained smiling and nodded, but said nothing, letting himself be led back to the car by the coterie of Aurors.

* * *

_6:15 P.M.  
__Harry Potter's Residence, Liverpool, UK_

The sun was already beginning to set, signalling to Harry that autumn was nearly in full-swing as he landed in the shady grove behind his house. There were lights on that Harry did not remember leaving lit when he left for the NIM that morning, signifying that, at the very least, Hermione was lounging around his house, and she might have brought Ron over. Harry shook his head, reminding himself that he should tell the brunette to stop breaking into his house whenever she felt like it. He knew Hermione was a stickler for the rules and maybe once Harry instituted a rule, she'd be likely to follow.

Wishful thinking, more likely.

Truthfully, Harry would like to be alone to lick his wounds from his disastrous induction into The Circus, as a long conversation with Hermione and Ron would eventually lead to them finding out that he had done something quite painful to his face when the numbing charm on the burn salve wore off. But, there was the pesky matter of Luna's father. Ron had said that he was questioning every magical in and around Ottery St. Catchpole, though he had said his mother had yielded some interesting (if unwitting) knowledge. But, the last time he spoke with his former unit in London, which was earlier that afternoon, Draco had picked up instead of Ron and said they were still chasing ghosts. Of course, the ponce decided to hang up after getting that one sentence out, before Harry could inquire as to why Draco was answering the charmed desk-phone of Ron's, so Harry still knew nothing about Mr. Lovegood's death.

Which was frustrating, because Harry _did_ like Luna, and he was rather miffed he hadn't been able to get in touch with the airy blonde over the past few days to express his condolences and whatnot, though Luna might have been able to see through his fake sincerity. Luna had always had an annoying habit of noticing when Harry was being phony. He supposed he was simply terrible at faking with people, particularly women, as Ginny could guess exactly what mood he was in by what humor he pretended to be in, and Hermione had the _worst_ knack for being able to tell when Harry was lying, large or small.

On the whole, when faced with men, Harry was able to lie quite convincingly. He turned into a jibbering idiot when faced with the same question from women, particularly women close to him. It almost made Harry wish men did everything, simply because women were smarter than them. Though he reckoned that his ability to deceive people was a poor reason to institute a sex-based hierarchy for wizarding society, though it wasn't all that different from the pureblood-over-mudblood gambit they had been running for the past few centuries.

Nevertheless, wizarding politics were tangential, Luna was the priority at hand. He wondered briefly how she was getting along. Had she taken over _The Quibbler_? Was she still planning on searching for Crumple-Horned Snorkacks as she had promised Ron she would do four months earlier during Easter at The Burrow?

Suddenly, he thought of a young brunette whom had also faced a tragedy quite recently, though her pain was far more physical than Luna's could ever be. Freya Thompson. She was proof that at least _something_ good could come out of Harry's obsession. Without his recklessness, without the help of the 'off-limits' Helene de Beauvoir, Freya, from all accounts a bright, spirited, young girl, would likely be hidden in another forest or warehouse, or drowned in the Dover Straits as they had found one of the earlier victims.

That gave Harry some semblance of satisfaction.

What was she doing now? If she was anything like Hermione, as practically everyone who had seen her announced, Freya would likely be sitting in the Hogwarts' library, devouring one of her First-Year books. If she were _really_ like Hermione, Harry thought with a wry grin, Freya would have already finished her books and was now re-reading in abject terror that she might have forgotten something that would be on an upcoming test.

Harry chuckled, passing through the small picket gate to the front yard of his home, stepping onto the stone path leading to the door. He looked inside, noticing Hermione sitting, watching a young, brown-haired, brown-eyed boy running in circles around her. He felt an involuntary twitch in his stomach, making him feel empty, as though he was about to vomit. Bathed in the firelight, Harry could almost imagine that he was coming home to his wife and child. He smiled involuntarily, half out of bliss and half out of revulsion at his sudden change in demeanor, unlocking the door and stepping inside. He faked a look of surprise when he saw Hermione and the young boy, who turned to see the DCI in the hallway, yelling out:

"DADDY!" As his hair morphed from brown to a messy, jet black, and his eyes turned startlingly green. He bum-rushed Harry with a wide, face-consuming grin, which was entirely funny to see a four year-old charging a grown man smiling like a madman.

"Hey, hey, Teddy!" Harry bent on one knee and scooped the four year-old off the ground. "How have you been?"

"Awful," he cried; Harry gave the boy a vulpine grin for his advanced use of language, "you don't come to see me, daddy!"

"I know, I know, kiddo," Harry started; he really didn't like that Teddy had taken to calling him 'daddy' and Hermione 'mummy', thinking it was an insult to both the memories of Lupin and Tonks, but Hermione had told him that she did not think either of the Lupins' would be offended. "But, you know, work and stuff." Harry defended weakly, raising the boy in his arms to eye level.

Hermione stood from the couch, walking over to Harry while Teddy (still looking like a fun-sized version of Harry) happily wriggled in his godfather's arms. "Work and stuff?" She snorted; Harry shrugged, "Mrs. Tonks said to bring him by, he has been pining to see you. I hope he isn't too much a burden?"

Harry smiled. "Never," he said, and bent his neck to plant a kiss on Teddy's forehead, whom squealed in delight. "The house isn't exactly kid-friendly, yet, though. I'll have to make sure to buy some toys or something for the next time Teddy comes over. Isn't that right, Teddy-boy?"

The excitable boy laughed again, clapping his hands together. "Toys!"

Both adults joined in on the laughter.

"Where's Ron?" Harry asked. "I tried to get in touch with him today, but for some reason, Malfoy was the one who answered the desk-phone."

Hermione looked surprised. "Malfoy didn't tell you? Ron's was one of the Aurors called out of the OIM to help the Anti-Terrorism Unit in Afghanistan. Your SCU's working a skeleton shift since you've been exiled up north and Malfoy has that probationary period."

Harry nodded. One of the stipulations for Malfoy to enter Auror Training was to go through a probationary period, given his family's allegiances during the War. It was not a terrible punishment. Do not leave the country unless expressly told to do so by the Ministry, or you will be brought back and jailed. For the first year, he was also shadowed by an MLE Officer to make sure Draco did not 'turn dark'.

"Afghanistan? They after that 'Philosophe' outfit?"

"That is what it seems like," she nodded, honey-brown hair bouncing around with every shake. Harry ignored the way the light from the fireplace made her glow, and decided, instead, to fuss over Teddy. "At least, that's what Ron is telling me. And, Harry, he's not very happy with you."

"Me? Why not?" Harry questioned, turning back to the brunette.

She bit her lip. Harry noticed. Suddenly, Hermione smiled:

"Keeps saying you should be the one down there," she teased, "said that you being reckless is the reason why he has to endure forty-three degree weather."

"Reckless?"

"I'm toning it down; there's a _child_ in the room, after all," Hermione replied, indicating Teddy, whom, for all intents and purposes, seemed to have fallen asleep on Harry's shoulder.

Harry held up his arms up defensively, raising Teddy with them. "Tell that tosser," he began good-naturedly; Harry always enjoyed banter with Ron even if he had to swear in front of a sleeping child and steamroll over Hermione's reproachful 'Harry!', "that if I hadn't behaved recklessly, _I'd _be in Kandahar in 'forty-three degree weather', _and _ we'd have a missing body instead of a brilliant little girl attending Hogwarts. I say even trade."

"Harry!" Hermione scolded, ignoring Harry's defense, "did I not just say there is _a child_ in the room?"

Harry could not help but notice Hermione stopped using contractions whenever she was angry. "Blimey, Hermione, the little tyke's fast asleep. I think he might start drooling on me. Definitely seems like he won't be offended."

"It is the _principle_ of the matter," she whispered harshly, "if you say it while he is asleep, who is to say you will not let it slip out when Teddy is awake?"

Harry smirked. "It won't happen again, mum."

Hermione smiled, a smile that betrayed slight annoyance. "Make sure it doesn't." She jumped as if remembering something. "Also, speaking of Freya-" Hermione went to the couch, where her healer's bag sat, fishing inside for something. After a few moments, Hermione picked out a yellowish-envelope sealed with a 'Gryffindor' wax seal, bearing Harry's name on the front. "-she sent us letters. I read mine earlier on break at work. I knew you'd be too engrossed with work, so I decided to give this to you personally."

Harry walked Teddy over to the couch, laying him down as the Auror shrugged and opened the envelope. It read:

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_You told me at King's Cross that if I ever needed someone to write to, I could write to you. So, I'm writing. Ms. Granger told me she knew how frightening it felt to be the daughter of two non-magical people going into the magical world. And, while the train ride was excellent (I made a friend, I think!), I was terrified when I got off The Hogwarts Express. Ms. Granger told me that Mr. Hagrid was a big man with a big heart, but I did not expect him to be so... well, big! He led us across that lake, and, my God, was the castle imposing! Once inside, I overheard some of the rumors about the Sorting. It sounded much like a lot of my classmates' older siblings had been exaggerating because we did_ _not__ have to fight a basilisk. Professor Flitwick just put a singing hat on our heads, though I'm sure you already know this, and it listed out what house we belonged in._

_That's not to say I wasn't afraid. I thought my heart was going to pound right out of my chest as the line dwindled. And, having the last name 'Thompson', I was near the end of the list! But eventually, Professor Flitwick called me down to the hat as well, and placed it over my head._

_Now, ever since I read the newest edition of 'Hogwarts, A History' during the summer, I thought I might be able to get into any house. But, I was quite sure I'd end up in Ravenclaw. A House that valued intelligence, and studying? A place where other people whom liked to read and learn as much as I did were practically family? It was like a dream! Of course, then I met you, and Mr. Weasley, and Ms. Granger, and I thought 'Gryffindor might not be so bad'. But the Hat seemed to have trouble Sorting me. It just sat there, silent._

_It was irrational, but suddenly, I thought maybe the hat would not Sort me at all! That I'd be forced to stand up while the Headmistress gave me a disappointed look and Professor Flitwick gave me a sad one and sent me back to the non-magical world. _

_Then the Hat started speaking to me! It said I was fairly ambitious, and loyal, enough to do well in both Hufflepuff and Slytherin, but my real strengths were my brain and my bravery, and it was having a hard time choosing between Ravenclaw and Gryffindor. I simply thought I'd be fine with either, knowing that I'd find someone to befriend in either._

_That seemed to settle it: "Gryffindor!" The hat cried, and suddenly, I was a Lion. Just like you, Ms. Granger, and Mr. Weasley!_

_It turned out that the two people I met on the train, a boy named Cyril and a girl named Elisa, were also put in Gryffindor! We've been working together on a lot of First Year homework, it's so wonderful here! All the things to learn, the HUGE library! I'm in heaven._

_But, I miss them. Very much._

_But I don't want to bore you with that, Mr. Potter, you've enough on your plate as is. In any case, thank you for reading this._

_Sincerely,  
Freya Thompson_

Harry reflexively smiled, though his heart called out to the little girl, finding a kindred spirit in the preteen. In his haste to read the letter, he had not noticed Hermione leaning over on the couch, placing her chin Harry's shoulder as she read the letter as well.

"What are you doing?" He asked. Amused cinnamon eyes trailed up to meet his own:

"Smelling you," she deadpanned. Harry's vision went out of focus momentarily, "What do you think I'm doing? I'm reading."

"Didn't your mum ever tell you it's bad manners to read other people's mail?" He pulled the letter out of her line of sight, causing the witch to pull back:

"Sorry," she replied, grinning wickedly, "I guess she never did."

Harry shook his head, staring off into space. "She seems happy, if a little bit homesick. But, that's to be expected."

"Yeah," Hermione agreed.

They were silent for some time.

"Is that really all? You came all this way to drop off Teddy and be my own personal postwoman?" Harry questioned, Hermione instantly averted her gaze, biting her lip. Whatever she was here for, neither the letter nor Harry's godson was the reason.

"I've been... thinking a lot lately," she began.

Harry snorted. "_This_ is news?" A terrific thwack met his bicep, followed by 'Prat!' and:

"I'm trying to be serious here," Hermione said, affronted. Harry could not help but snicker. "Honestly!"

"Sorry," Harry replied, trying in vain to quell his laughter.

"Ever since you and Ron, and that girlfriend of yours-"

"She's not my girlfriend," Harry said, feeling a bit defensive. Why did everyone think that?

Hermione gave Harry a look that clearly told him she didn't believe that. "Uh-huh," she nodded sagely, "ever since you, Ron, and that _informant_ of yours brought Freya to St. Mungo's, I've been thinking. And when you started to talking to me after you woke up, I _really_ started thinking."

"Hermione," Harry started, "you're babbling."

She bit her lip again. "Perhaps, showing is better than telling."

"Right," Harry said, "because telling is gibberish."

Hermione shot Harry a half-hearted dirty look and reached into her bag once more, this time pulling out a another letter that Harry knew to be from the Ministry of Magic. One look at the broken seal and Harry knew what Department it was from. She handed the delicate, cream-colored envelope to Harry:

"I suppose you know what this is?"

Harry knew exactly what he was looking at. He didn't need to see the Ministry of Magic Embossing on the front, nor did he need to see that pesky address underneath it. He simply opened the envelope and read the letter aloud:

"'_Miss Granger,_" Harry started.

_"Thank you for your interest in joining the Auror Program! We are pleased to inform you that you have passed the preliminary stages of joining, and, should you wish to continue, we ask you to join the Auror Training Academy for the six-month training program from 1 January, 2003 to 1 June, 2003. _

_Once again, we thank you for the continued interest and hope to see you at training.  
_

_DCS Walter Stark  
Office of the Old Irish Metre"_

Harry looked over the letter once more, before folding it quietly. "Does Ron know?"

Hermione hesitated. "No," she said after some time.

"When do you plan on telling him?"

"...I don't know."

"Why are you telling me?"

"Maybe... because I want to gauge your reaction and decide from there whether I want to tell Ron?"

Harry squinted. "And if my reaction is less than pleasant?"

Poker-faced, she responded, "Then I guess I won't tell him."

"Is that even realistic?" Harry questioned. "He's bound to wonder where his girlfriend disappeared to for six months."

She crossed her arms and looked seriously at the DCI. "Don't beat around the bush, Harry. Just tell me how you feel about the possibility of me being an Auror."

Harry paused, wringing his hands. Hermione would make a fantastic Auror, once she shook off some of the combat-rust. She had a great mind, was able to connect dots quickly, and more than once, Harry had gone to her for help with extremely trying cases. Yes. She'd be brilliant at it, like nearly everything Hermione did. But, there was a sense of gnawing disappointment in his gut. Harry had hoped he could keep both of his friends away from combat. Ron, of course, he couldn't make stay behind to work at George's joke-shop, but Harry felt a sense of obligation toward Hermione. She had faced so much while they were hunting Voldemort, Harry simply thought she would rather have a desk-job, or at least one that was not so dangerous.

Like Ginny's job. Important, but not dangerous.

And there was also the fact that it seemed like Hermione was wasting her time. She was a woman that could inspire change in the country; she was the person Harry was _supposed_ to be. Hermione, Harry knew, bore the pain she endured from the war with pride and did not let that scar tissue envelope her life, as Harry had done. With the decay in the sort of person he was, Harry knew he was no leader, and could never be one. Hermione would be capable of all that neither he nor Ron could pull off. So, there was a sense of disappointment, feeling she was not living up to her potential. Harry did not know why he felt this way; perhaps he had just thought if Hermione ever left St. Mungo's, it would be to take a legislative job or the Minister's Chair itself.

"I'll take your silence as a negative then," Hermione started, standing up, looking hurt. She was about to snatch the envelope from Harry when he pulled it away from her grasp.

She looked furious but Harry would not be deterred; he simply had to find a way to walk on the eggshell the conversation had turned to and hopefully not end the night having been hexed. "Would you let me answer the question?"

Hermione really did not look like she wanted to let him continue, but, grudgingly, she stepped back and eyed Harry coolly.

"I think you'll make a brilliant Auror," he said earnestly, and the sudden shift in her chocolate eyes from fury and hurt to cautious joy nearly made Harry grin in giddyness, "better than me, that's for sure. You're smart, strong, have a level-head; you'd do well with Aurors. You'd do well with _anyone_, really. Except for the Seer Division, of course."

Hermione smiled at that, but Harry continued, expression turning grave to match his internal doubts:

"I have no doubts that once you became Auror, you'd probably take my position from right under my nose," Harry lightly teased, "but the fact that you'll do well with anyone is the problem. You're _too smart_ to become an Auror!"

Hermione suddenly shifted her body in a manner that expressed thorough confusion. Apparently, of all the things she thought Harry was going to say, Hermione had not expected this. "What?" She asked.

"Look, being an Auror is an exciting, fast-paced job," Harry started, "but you have a mind that could reform the entire country. _You__ do_. And, as much as I've become the poster-boy for all things righteous and holy, I'm neither. And I certainly can't lead the country out of the dark ages."

"What are you saying?"

"It's... I... I only thought you'd leave St. Mungo's to do something that matters. Learn law, become a Solicitor or Barrister and eventually make your way up to take Minister. Sorry to burst any bubble you may have, but as exciting as Auror-work is, it doesn't matter, and you wouldn't be able to stand it."

Hermione sat back down, next to Harry, urging him to go on:

"No matter how many people you catch, how many you put in jail for life, or watch them die at Petre, it doesn't change anything. Someone will eventually replace that rapist you just arrested, or sell that Agilian you just confiscated, or murder that person you just saved. It's just a cycle. And, I don't know if you could live with that. It's a cynic's job."

"So?"

Harry raised an eyebrow. "I don't want you to lose your ideals. I don't want to see that happen. Not for the country's sake, and definitely for your sake."

Hermione pursed her lips. "I will be fine, Harry."

"I know you will. You will be for a while. And then one day you won't," Harry sighed, "Ron's reaching his breaking point."

"What?"

"He's going to snap, soon, sometime. He's too idealistic for the job. Like you," Harry started. He saw Hermione's eyes flash angrily again. "Look, Hermione, I'm not trying to discourage you or tell you you're not good enough for the job. Not at all. Just remember to _really_ think about this before you make a decision. I know Ron'd be just as delighted as I would be if you became one. But, please. Think about it."

"Of course," Hermione replied, eyes softening just a smidgen, "I always do and I already have."

"That's mighty bigheaded of you, Miss Granger," Harry snorted."But, seriously, if it makes you happy; if you _really_ want to do it after you think on it a bit, then I want you to go for it."

"I told you: I already have," she paused and smirked, "and if you or Ron don't like it then suck it up and deal with it. You, of all people, should understand why I need the job."

Harry shook his head. "You don't need the job. Not like I do."

The brunette raised an uncaring eyebrow, Merlin, she was scary when angry! "Oh? I do not recall this being a contest."

"Just stating facts."

"Oh, is _that_ what they are, now?"

"Don't get snippy, I told you I'm fine with it so long as you are." Harry paused. "I know Ron might be difficult for a few days but you know he doesn't like change very much. I don't either, so this is going to take some getting used to for the both of us. Just remember that once all this is done and over with, if you truly feel like you've made the right choice, both he and I will be there to support you." He added an afterthought with a sardonic smile: "Erm... You know, because we love you."

Hermione's serious face didn't hold up for long as she broke into a fit of giggles. "You sure have a funny way of showing it, Harry! 'It's just a cycle; it doesn't change anything', doom, gloom, and the inevitable big crunch of the universe." Harry laughed, too, as the brunette stood and hugged him tightly, one of the bone-crushing hugs Harry had been used to during their Hogwarts days. "Thank you," she whispered into his ears.

"Any time," Harry replied. And all was silent for a few blessed seconds among the chaos that was post-war Magical Britain before Harry, rather more reluctantly than he would have liked, let go of Hermione.

* * *

_September 9, 2002 6:51 PM  
__Anfield Spirit Pub, Liverpool, UK_

"So what do we do with him?" Harry questioned, lowering his pint-glass from his mouth back to the table.

"Özek? Not much we _can _do," Seamus replied conversationally, taking a sip of his own drink. "He won't talk, he won't tell us where the gun is, but we've got more than enough hard evidence on the bastard to get him locked up in Barathrum."

"Barathrum? Not Petre?"

Seamus shrugged. "I doubt he's high-profile enough to be shackled in Petre, but trust me, Barathrum is no cakewalk either. Bloke like him goes there, we should be right chuffed." He took a long gulp of his draught, leaving a foam mustache behind. Harry conveniently forgot to tell Seamus that he had one.

Harry nodded, drinking from his own pint as well. Supposedly, this was a 'congratulatory pub night', an event where the people whom had solved a crime would go to a pub and get right pissed. Since Özek was behind bars for the night, Harry and Seamus found themselves here. What was different than most 'pub nights', however, was the distinct air of commiseration between the two Aurors, as if they were at a funeral instead of celebrating their triumph.

Harry sighed, swishing his drink around the glass. "Isn't this supposed to be... you know... more lively?"

"I guess we're just depressing people," Seamus answered. Harry shrugged and lit up a cigarette, ignoring Seamus' barb of: "Depressing people with lung cancer."

"Shut up," Harry drawled.

Just then, a red-headed wizard that Harry did not recognize strolled up to the bar and ordered a Guiness, just like Seamus and Harry were having. It took a moment before the drink was ready, but soon, the bartender handed it to the ginger and he went along his merry way. Seamus looked after the retreating figure and slurred:

"That _bastard_."

"What bastard?" Harry asked, looking in the ginger's direction.

Seamus pointed at the wizard. "Ron, of course."

Harry squinted to see better. "That's not Ron," he said. How much had Seamus had to drink?

"What? Of course it is! He's a ginger knob, same difference!" Harry snorts at Seamus' childish supposition. "How did that bastard get so lucky? I remember when we were in school, and there were times when it was hard not to feel bad for the bloke, always in second place to _you_. But, then, the war ends, and he's got the job, the fame, the girl. What've _we_ got?"

"Hey, both Ron and Hermione have their own problems. They just carry theirs better than most."

"I'm sure," Seamus said sarcastically, "that's why they're in London and we're sitting in a pub trying to get pissed."

"Speak for yourself," Harry snorted, "I've got all I need. Not everybody got a raw deal out of the war. Definitely not me. I've got the same job and the same fame as Ron, just not a girl. And, really? Boo-hoo to that."

Seamus sneered, which was an admirably strange-looking expression when on the Irishman. "No, you just shun all human contact and treat the job as it's the only thing that matters because your life is _fulfilling_, right?"

"Hey, now-"

"Really, Harry, you're not as difficult to read as you think. If we're gonna work together for the rest of these six months, you're gonna have to speak up: What was that scar that Voldemort left on you?" Harry flinched, and Seamus seemed to take pleasure in his double-entendre. "Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder? Major-Depressive?"

Harry glowered at Seamus, whose own glare softened as he spoke:

"Something isn't right in there, I can tell," he said. "That last battle left its own scars on me, too."

"Really?"

"Really."

"What was it?"

Seamus looked around and leaned in. "Promise you won't tell anyone."

"Auror's Honor," Harry replied.

"And that you won't laugh."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "I won't guarantee that."

"Well," Seamus replied, "I could live with a little laughter." He stopped, as if mulling over his thoughts again. After a long time, he spoke again. "I'm impotent."

Harry's eyebrows must have shot into his hairline. His knee-jerk reaction was to start snickering, but the laughter died before it could reach Harry's throat once he realized the implications of such a diagnosis.

"Death Eater curse," Seamus explained, "went to every Healer I could find. Incurable."

Harry let out a breath he had not known he had been holding in. "Mate, I'm sorry-"

"Don't apologize," Seamus barked, "I've spent enough time with you to know how you seem to take everything that happens to anyone personally. You know, Hermione and Ron are right on this one, you can't save everyone."

"Don't you think I know that? It doesn't change the fact that I'm responsible for what happens."

"No you're not." Seamus said, "_You're not_."

"On the night after the Battle of Hogwarts, I went to the morgue at St. Mungo's, looking at all the people that died there. I knew the Hermione was following me, but she remained quiet, unobtrusive. In fact, all I heard was the sound of cooling charms and our footsteps. And you know what that sound was?"

Seamus leaned forward, interested.

"The sound of fifty-six souls I failed to save."

"That's-that's not even realistic! You can't expect to save _everyone_!"

"I can't help how I feel," Harry shrugged at the Irishman, "Now, about your troubles?"

Seeing that Harry had brooked that particular conversation, Seamus returned to the previous topic. "Found out a few weeks after the Battle. You remember Susan Bones?"

Harry nodded. "She married Ernie, right?"

Seamus nodded and smiled bitterly. "That last year at Hogwarts, I fell so head-over-heels bleedin' in love with her, and I finally got her in January. We were both in love. And I don't mean sorta-kinda in love; I mean, like, in for the long-bloody-haul in love. We had kept from, you know... because of the state of affairs outside. But we talked of having a house in London. Kids. White-picket fence. You know, it was bit of a chancer, her being a pureblood and me da' being a muggle an' all. If Voldemort won, we'd be separated for sure. But we had faith in you, Harry, even if you were on the doss.

"And then, you came. And we fought. And we lived and died together. So on and so forth, and then I got hit with that willy spell. Didn't even know it. Cut down the arse thinking he was a gowl who couldn't even hold his bleedin' wand straight. Jesus, was I wrong! You, Ron, and Hermione come save the day and suddenly, Voldemort's gone and Susie and I have a life to look forward to! I tell my mum about her, and we spent a few weeks trying to put our lives back in order. And then, a few weeks later, Susie decided she was ready for sex, and _I_ was born ready. Except-"

"Except you couldn't get it up," Harry finished for the hesitating Irishman.

Seamus nodded. "We passed it off as first-time nerves, but then it happened again. And again. And Susie was supportive, she knew it wasn't because I didn't have the desire, or-Merlin forbid!-thought she was an ugly _cow_. She told me to visit a healer. I was a little cheesed at the thought at first, but then, I decided I may as well go. They revealed the spell to me and how it was incurable.

"Naturally, I was a little 'woe is me' for a while. But Susie was supportive, even though we both we knew we couldn't be together anymore. Pureblood lines must go on, as they say, and a being an impotent, half-blood Irishman did me no favors. She had to move on. Susie's still there for me, I s'pose, but, she's there for me like Hermione's there for you. A friend, nothing more."

"Ah," Harry sighed, understanding.

"But, the difference between you and me is, you say you didn't _want_ to start a family with Hermione. You didn't _want_ that with her. I _wanted_ that with Susie. But, instead, I get to be that drunk ol' git who has to watch the woman he loves raise another man's children, who can't get close enough to anyone. That's my scar tissue, I guess. The price of choosing a side."

It was a lot to take in. And for a moment, Harry pitied the man in front of him. To watch Susan, whom Seamus loved, and whom loved him back, marry another man and have that other man's children must have been unbearably painful. Pureblood dogma had not totally disappeared then, Harry surmised. Feeling like he should say something about how the war affected him, Harry crossed his legs and began telling his tale as well:

"I have combat addiction."

Seamus looked up, flabbergasted. "Are you serious, mate?"

"Why do you think I became an Auror?"

Seamus stared. "Diagnosed?"

"Self-diagnosed."

"You know they can help you."

"No," Harry sneered, "they _retrain_ you. Hermione showed me those affected by war illnesses in St. Mungo's once. They do not treat, they aggressively medicate until the patient is either a sheep or so brain-dead they wouldn't be considered alive by anyone else. I'm not letting that happen to me."

"Does she know?"

"No, neither of them do," Harry replied, "she thinks it's morbid curiosity and he thinks it's just my fate. It's why I can't _get the girl_. The need is just... too consuming. Ginny and I are too different. I need geniuses to face, not sexpots in bed."

Seamus blinked, and then guffawed, loud and long. "Look at us. One bloke can't have sex, and the other one doesn't want it. Dean'd say we're pathetic."

"We're human. You can't have contact with others, I don't want it. That's our curse."

Seamus raised his glass. "Our scar tissue!"

Harry clinked his drink with Seamus':

"Our scar tissue," he agreed.

* * *

A/N: Wow, that was a doozy at about 17,600 words. Once again, the plot sort of took a back seat to the characters. We saw a lot of Seamus in this chapter, and this will not change until Part 3. Truthfully, he's more the secondary character right now than Hermione is, though the fic is ultimately HHr. But, then again, the secondary character sort of changes every Part. Seamus is definitely the 'secondary protagonist' of Part Two, it's a wash between Ginny and Hermione in Part 3 (though I'd say Ginny just barely edges Hermione out because her relationship towards Harry is cosmic and character defining, though definitely not sexual). In Part 4 and 5, Hermione's the true 'Secondary character'.

Also, make no mistake, no matter how chummy Harry and Seamus are, Ron/Hermione are still Harry's best friends and Dean is still Seamus'. However, the two meet on common ground that they can't share with their other friends. Dean would tease Seamus mercilessly over what I think is a rather cruel fate, Ron would be left speechless at Harry's admission, and Hermione would probably blow a gasket.

Thanks for reading! And thank you for the reviews last chapter!

Zero's view of James Bond is the exact opposite of MGS' Zero's view on him.

Violence without hostility comes to play a major role, particularly in the last multi-chapter 'Act' of the fic.

Four neurotic New Yorkers – A famous 'show about nothing'. If you don't know what this television show is, I pity you and the severely stunted life you live.

Harry fashions himself the outsider, which I think is an interesting angle to explore. Ron's always been part of a wizarding family, so he's always been part of the magical world. Hermione grew up a muggle, so she'd been part of that world, but she also took to the Magical World quite quickly. Harry feels lost, mainly because he feels that he's never truly been a part of either. Life with Dursleys was conflict, and most of his Hogwarts' life was conflict as well. He feels lost without it, and realizes how little he knows of either world.

Depressed Mobster – Obviously, _The Sopranos_.

Hamid Karzai, current president of Afghanistan (as of 2012) did survive an assassination attempt on September 5, 2002. Whether a magical terrorist group was _actually _involved, however, is extremely unlikely.

An M4 is an American-made rifle, a newer, carbine version of the M16 made famous during the Vietnam War. If Harry was a muggle, he'd likely be fitted with an SA80, a British Assault Rifle.

Seamus refers the Irina's death (jokingly) as the result of a football rivalry. Why? Because her home is near Goodison Park, the home of Everton F.C.. Her body was then found nearby Anfield Stadium, where Liverpool F.C. Plays. The rivalry between the two sides is similar to Manchester City/United and Arsenal/Chelsea, or for those of you not familiar with European Football, it's like the White Sox/Cubs rivalry in baseball. Though, it's usually a point of contention for Liverpudlians whom support Anfielders on whether the Liverpool/Everton or the Liverpool/Manchester United rivalry is bigger.

Atra Lumos means something similar to 'black light'. I might be wrong, though, considering I'm no Latin buff.

The movie Harry saw with Ginny is obviously _Forrest Gump_.

Since the wizarding world gets hung up on blood purity, and there's really no reference to homosexuality in the Potterverse (other than word of God about Dumbledore), I assume that wizard's would be, though not condemning of it, slightly uncomfortable around the topic of homosexuality.

Ginger Beer – Cockney rhyming slang for 'queer'.

The Immanuel Kant portion is from his work 'Perpetual Peace'.

Was Freya's part acceptable or did she seem too mature/immature for an eleven year-old?

Hermione wants to become Miss Marple? Think she can do it?

Petre was first mentioned in Chapter Two. Barathrum is an Irish Prison made in replacement for Azkaban, though not quite as bad. Petre is a intra-European prison for high-profile dark wizards. Barathrum holds people like Özek.

Auror's Honor - Like Scout's Honor.

On the doss - I believe it's the Irish equivalent of 'playing hookey'.

Gowl - Idiot.

Was Seamus fate too ridiculous, or rather ironic and bitter? I feel sorry for him. But was it too much?

Reviews, reviews, reviews! I love them, and this long chapter was made with loving tenderness, so leave me one if you can, sirs and madames!

Geist.

P.S. Next chapter might be out a little later than usual because I'll be returning to DotU after its, admittedly long hiatus.

Thanks again!

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	9. Storm Warnings

**Summary**: This employs a bit of a timeskip. Around a month, to be exact. Harry recounts the Lovegood funeral and that case. Ron is returning from his extended stay in Afghanistan, Hermione looks to Harry for help in breaking the news to Ron, and Harry continues to work the drug case with Seamus, Dean, and Dennis alongside arduous Circus training.

* * *

The King of Limbs

Part 2

"One perfect instance in time."  
- Dennis Creevey

VII: Storm Warnings

* * *

_September 16, 2002. 3:12 PM  
The Circus Motherbase - Training Arena._

The smile on his nemesis' face was infuriating.

"You need to be a force of nature!" He said, dropping low with a hook to the gut. "Something more than _just a man_. Frightening your enemies into fighting themselves for you."

Harry blocked another flurry of punches, bringing his arms to his face and allowing his opponent to wear himself out. Unfortunately, the man he was currently facing never seemed to tire. But, seeing his opening directly after a punch that glanced off his bicep, Harry jabbed at the man's face, sending the man reeling backwards. Both men had nearly worn themselves out; Harry was on his last legs as spun around for a lazy kick to the chest, which barely connected.

The man staggered. "You have power, yes. And speed. But no form."

Without warning, a fist met Harry's face, and the raven-haired DCI could feel his nose shatter with the impact. "You'll have to do better than that if you want to keep your nose in one piece."

Harry breathed out of his mouth as the teacher readied himself once more. "I can barely move."

"And do you think an enemy cares?" Came Harry's teacher's voice as he rushed the DCI. Instinctively, Harry grabbed the incoming arm, able to stop it and redirect the motion into flipping his nemesis over the shoulder. Instead of giving the man a chance to recover, Harry kneel over the man and sent strong, practiced jabs at the man's face, torso, and chest. There were a few grunts with each bit of exertion, but with the slightest hesitation, Harry found himself back on the ground, the victim of a headbutt. He looked around, finding nothing but dark shadows and shapes moving around the pillars at the edge of the room.

"You are quite adept," his approving voice carried throughout the training room. "But you are lost."

Harry hated when the man spoke in riddles. It was a simple trick.

Focus. Focus!

Hearing amplified, sight grew stronger, tastes magnified. To the right!

Harry turned and sent a kick at the man, jumping into it to avoid the outstretched arm, coming in to stop Harry in his tricks. He connected for the barest moment, until a hand grabbed his leg and threw him off. His teacher crumpled to the floor while Harry stared at the room, sailing about him, as he flew backwards into a wall. A sharp stab of pain forced him to close his eyes and he fell to the ground with a thud, vision going black.

* * *

_6:25 PM_

Harry's eyelids fluttered open. He stared blearily at his surroundings, vision hazy. Blinking a couple of times, blurry objects came into focus as Harry realized he was staring at a familiar ceiling. White, made up of many tiles. A hospital ceiling.

"Am I correct in saying I will be seeing you quite often from now on?" A calm, feminine voice interrupted Harry's attempt to reacquaint himself with the environment. "Welcome back to the land of the living, Sorrow."

A youngish blonde woman stood at the foot of the cot Harry found himself upon.

"Quite the nasty injury you sustained, child," she said, bustling about, "you had more than a few broken bones when you came here, and I hope you do appreciate how difficult it was to readjust your nose to how it looked before your... accident."

Harry blinked a couple of times, surprised. "... Oracle?"

"That is what they call me," she replied. Harry tried to stand, but was nearly immediately restrained to his bed by Oracle. "No, rest. You have many more fights, and many more lessons before you can return. You will need your rest, child."

Oracle stood above Harry and he felt his vision fail him once more.

* * *

"You can fight one man, you need to learn how to defeat twenty. And once you learn to take on twenty, you must learn to dispatch one hundred. There is no end to your training. There is only combat."

_And you? You are a product of war. An old killer._

"Combat and the will. The will to thrive."

A week passed. Training was rigorous.

A dark thrumming power ran through Harry's spine as he engaged five men at once, no magic, only close-quarters, hand-to-hand combat.

"You must be in control."

Emotion control.

Body control.

Environment control.

Battlefield control.

_A product of war._ A child of the battlefield. Unused to life outside the box of conflict. Born in darkness. Growing up with despair. Everything must be... under control. Fighting must become routine, second-nature, as if he had used it all his life. Gun control, wand control, fist control, mind control. One cannot fear anything if they are to survive through something that would break a lesser man.

That was the lesson. _Do not let yourself become a lesser man_. Pain must not frighten. Death must not frighten. Fear itself_ must not frighten_. Nothing must frighten, and then a man is free. Free to fight, free to die and be complete, content with what one has done.

Control.

Happier, fitter.

Nothing must frighten.

Battlefield control.

"...And when you learn to take on one-hundred, you must learn to take one-thousand."

There is no end. Only conflict.

A strange familiarity wrapped around Harry as he fired his first gun, displaying an unnatural knack and talent for it. Five men became ten men, ten men became twenty. Twenty men up, and twenty men down.

"That is the will to thrive, to act, to do something that is _meaningful_. No fear!"

It was meaningful. This control.

Another voice bombarded Harry. "To _rise_ from the abyss, to overcome one's own weaknesses and inabilities time and time again! No compromise!"

_There is no perfection, only the pursuit of it._

And one must _rise_ to the occasion every time. Rise. Rise. Rise over the shackles of what once chained him. Rise over the enlightened state he was in for a moment. Perfection was unattainable, but the pursuit of it made men unbreakable. That was what The Circus was trying to do to him. Make him _unbreakable_. To make him a rising man, of no concern with being content with life still left within them, but rather, the will to overcome, the will to act so long as he still breathed.

This was true combat. This was true magic, in its rawest, purest form.

_You are a product of war..._

And you must return to that zero point. Where there was no fear, or death, or grief. There was only the absence of uncertainty. To walk into battle knowing whether one would live or die, that was control that could not be erased. Here was the end, where normal men and women ended, and the Monsters and Titans and Nephilites jumped from the pages of books into the uncertain world. Once everything returned to zero, all things trivial disappeared. No fear, no death.

Just control for the men of war.

He was ready.

* * *

_October 10th, 12:17 PM  
Offices of the New Irish Metre - Auror Lobby_

September faded into October, as Harry found himself once again preoccupied with Auror-work. Aside from rigorous training from Zero in all things violent and stealthy, the last month had passed languidly. With Ron's temporary relocation to the Middle East, the Lovegood Case had been put on ice, as the guy who took over for the redhead was not quite as diligent about the case as Ron was. Another happy, and incredibly irritating at times, outcome of that arrangement was Hermione's insistence upon spending more time at Harry's house. She had even used the guest room for the night from time-to-time, despite that her flat was only a floo-call away. Now Harry did not normally mind Hermione's presence, being that she was good company and quite useful on particularly hard cases, as well as the fact that she brought the ever-excitable Teddy Lupin to spend time with his obviously overworked godfather, but he was finding it a little difficult to be around the honey-haired woman these days. Something about her would set it off: to see her playing with Teddy, or the way she talked about complex medical thingies Harry did not understand, or something as simple as the way she ate (with a book propped up on her lap as she nibbled one whatever she was eating). All of that made Harry feel empty.

Like he needed more.

Seamus told Harry more about Susan over that month, and already Harry could begin drawing comparisons between himself and the impotent Irishman. Seamus told Harry that he was able to stay friendly with Susan the first few months she was married. Even when she told him she was pregnant, Seamus tried to remain happy, despite that his mind told him that the baby inside Susie should have been _his_. But then, the emptiness came back, roaring. It was something simple, at first. Her rubbing her baby bump as they sat on a bench in Hyde Park (both had lived in London, at the time) was the first time it set off. A sense of nausea, incompleteness, knowing that she and that baby was what he craved, but could never have.

Then it was watching her hold her baby son for the very first time. Then her returning to work, walking into the Daily Prophet newsroom proudly as fellow coworkers chortled and clapped. And finally, when she was with Ernie, whom had their son in his hands while Susan nursed another baby bump.

"Too much pain," Seamus had said, "too much bitterness. It's why I threw away my life in London and moved here. I couldn't be _just friends_ with her. I needed Susie out of my life or I'd do something rash."

Was that what Harry was starting to feel now? Now that Hermione and Ron had settled into being a more-or-less _normal_ couple, Harry was realizing what he was missing? What he had so carelessly bequeathed to his friend on that cold winter day Ron destroyed the Locket? Would he end like Seamus? Driven away from Ron and Hermione because he could not _let_ _go_?

A bone-chilling cold swept through Harry's body, throughout the entirety of that month. A cold, callous, empty pit somewhere where his stomach used to be and where a dead monster whom had roared for a girl named Ginny once resided. Harry knew his own shortcomings, that in the grand scheme of things, he was an ant compared to Ron. Sure, Harry was valiant, and noble, but it was curse rather than a gift and Hermione knew it. Ron did not suffer from combat addiction, Ron did not wish to be on the battlefield where he could kill and maim at will, Ron did not abuse drugs, or smoke, or pity himself. Yes. Ron was the safe choice, the logical choice. The easy man to love.

He was just a friend. And, as much as that emptiness grew, Harry would have to keep it that way.

So he did what he did best: bury his head in work.

Which brought Harry back to his current situation:

"Looks like they're running a bit scared," Dennis began, throwing photos down on the shared table the quartet had been using for case review, "They're changing the way the business runs on us. Better be glad you got that glimpse of Shankly, because he's probably gonna stay away from the towers for quite some time, now."

"Can we still track them and do hand-to-hand exchanges?" Harry asked.

Dennis smiled. "Of course. But it's been more than a month and we haven't got much to put on anyone other than a few drug charges on a couple of kids who don't know any better and haven't got any opportunities."

Seamus sighed. "So, no big 'un's, more's the pity."

Dean nodded morosely.

Harry grunted, before remembering something. "I remember something from when I worked at the OIM. It was just after the September 11th attacks in America. Since murder was down, DCI Granath temporarily reassigned me to the Anti-Terrorism unit, and of course, we were on hot heaping coals about any terrorist group that we had known about and simply ignored in the past. One of the these so called 'Blind Cells' was called 'The Fount', though they'd be more likely to call themselves a paramilitary group. What we did was trace the money they had been spending around, tracking it to black market sales of weapons in the former Yugoslavia, prostitution and the drug trade in Eastern Europe, and combat ops within the Middle East, which, as you know, has been holding a bloody war for the past twenty years."

"I remember that! You brought in a hundred witches and wizards connected with the sales. What does that have to do with us, though?" The question came from Dean.

A smile spread across the DCI's face. "We were able to make continent-wide arrests because we followed the money routes. Where the money was going, who sent it, who received it. We do the same thing, on a smaller scale with these guys, and we'll have them."

"That's great an' all, but we'd have to prove Shankly's up to something _first_."

Harry eyed the three incredulously. "He was spotted in a known drug trade haunt with someone whom appears to be a terrorist-trainer who has some connection to those pesky attacks last year? Given the sudden emphasis on terrorism, especially after the assassination attempt last month, I think that'll be more than enough to convince a judge to let us try to get into Shankly's Gringotts account."

"Assuming the bleeding goblins let us into the place," Seamus muttered darkly. Goblins were a constant source of annoyance to Aurors, given their fierce protection of the interests of their clientele. What was more idiotic was that they felt that the Ministry had no jurisdiction over them.

Which was, in a way, true. But the Ministry had jurisdiction over the wizards the goblins were protecting, so their laws were moot. But, the goblins would give a long and tiring fight about no matter what.

"Leave that to me," Harry replied, "For now, Dean, you and I will head to the courthouse for a subpoena."

"Let me get my stuff," Dean said, rushing back to his desk.

Harry rubbed his eyes. "In the mean time, finish going over these case files for me by tomorrow."

"What, you giving us homework, now?" Dennis asked with a sly smile.

"Be glad that's all you're getting," Harry snarked as his mobile started chirruping. He looked down to see Hermione was calling him, confused as to why she'd phone him in the middle of the workday, Harry answered:

"Hermione?"

A different voice was on the end of the line. "No, it's me, mate."

"Ron?" Harry questioned, smiling, "Finally using mobiles, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"When'd you get back?"

"Two nights ago, but I need to talk to you," he replied, sounding rushed and harried. "Like, right now."

Harry did not know what it was, but Ron sounded rather desperate. "Wait, what is it, mate? You're sounding a bit peaky."

"It's... nothing," Ron said, "just, can you meet me?"

Harry shrugged. "I don't see why not, but I'm in a different city right now. It'll have to wait a little while."

"Not a little while, soon. Like in the next thirty minutes, soon. I've got something of... of _global-like_ proportions, Harry." As much as he wanted to ignore Ron right now, Harry knew that tone of voice from anywhere. It had come out especially after he had become an Auror. Ron either had found out something big, or was feeling insecure. In any case, if Hermione was not available, Harry would have to talk him down.

"Alright, alright. Has Hermione told you my address, yet?"

"Yeah," Ron answered.

Harry nodded. "Good, floo over there and I'll pick you up in fifteen."

"Okay, okay, thanks mate, you're a lifesaver."

The line went dead.

"Ready to go?" Dean asked, in full-gear as Harry looked up from his mobile.

"Er... on second thought, let's not go to Camelot. It is a silly place," Harry replied, to the quiet chuckles of both Dean and Dennis, as well as a confused look from Seamus. "Muggle thing," he said by way of explanation.

"Where to first, then?" Dean questioned.

Harry sighed. "My house. Ron's there, and apparently in a right state. I'll have to check up on him." Seeing Dean's apprehensive look, Harry started: "There's lunch in it for you if you really hate Ron that much."

"No, no, I don't hate Ron," Dean started, "I just don't want my nad's chomped on by Rodgers when I get back."

"Don't be daft," Harry countered, "Nothing's going to happen to you."

"If you say so," Dean said.

"Brilliant, let's be off!"

* * *

_12:40 PM  
Harry Potter's Residence, Liverpool, UK_

The stone steps to Harry's door clattered against his own feet, as well as Dean's. Unlocking the door, both men stepped inside, leading to a low whistle from the dark-skinned wizard:

"Nice place you got here, Potter," Dean gushed, "I'm a bit jealous."

"Yeah, well the down payment's a right cu-"

"-Harry!" Ron's voice cut across Harry's sentence. Harry looked up to see a mop of red hair rushing up to meet him, "Mate, how you doing?"

"Fantastic," Harry replied, "How was Afghanistan?"

"Murder," drawled the DS. He turned to see Dean, whom stood smiling in the foyer. "Dean! Mate, it's been too long!"

"Likewise," came the NIM-Auror's response.

Ron turned to Harry, sighing. "How was Luna? Did you see her at the funeral?"

Harry nodded. "She's coping," he replied. "I... I'm no good at talking to her, though. Even Scamander has a tough time talking to her. I think she was waiting for you, mate." Ron looked pained as Harry said that. "You've just got that effect on her, I guess."

Harry remembered the night of Xenophilius' funeral (he had wanted his funeral to take place at midnight). It was an unseasonably cool night, wind blowing softly against Harry's cheek as he stood solemnly, wedged between Mrs. Weasley and Ginny, both of whom looked about ready to cry, though Ginny was doing a much better job of holding back the wetworks than her mother. Hermione stood one row ahead of Harry, next to George and Angelina. She turned and gave the DCI a reassuring smile that he could not bring himself to match.

It was not that he was exceptionally sad, but after the war, and his subsequent years in the Auror Division, Harry found he simply did not understand funerals. Perhaps it was a side-effect of not dying the fateful day in the Forbidden Forest, but Harry saw death differently than most people.

The difference between Harry and the bawling Mrs. Weasley, the teary Ginny, and the forcing-herself-to-stay-composed Hermione, was that he simply did not fear death. Harry would not allow himself to.

Luna stood at the head of the group, her husband, Rolf Scamander, holding her tightly, as if expecting her to be monumentally saddened. But she was not. The airy blonde simply wore that dreamlike smile Harry had become so fond of. Somewhere, deep down inside, he was glad that a woman he considered to be a little sister was taking this so well, but it left room for worry: the look in her far-off blue eyes was one that Harry recognized in his own greens. Absolute fearlessness. No compromise in the face of death, because death was nothing to be afraid of.

When all the well-wishers stopped by Luna to give their final condolences, all Harry could do was muster up a weak smile at the girl, but she threw her arms around him and smiled sweetly:

"You understand," was all Luna said before letting Harry go.

And go he did, leaving Ottery St. Catchpole before anyone could stop him.

"But, enough about Luna, what's so important that you had to pull me from work to talk about?"

Ron shifted from one foot to the other. "Erm... it's sort of about that," he began sheepishly, scratching the back of his head, "Any chance you can help me out with some memory viewing?"

"What?"

"I got a hold of some... erm... relevant memories of what happened around the time of old Xeno's death," Ron began, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

Harry cut across before the redhead could say anything else. "Ron, you're looking a bit peaky. Maybe you should sit. I'll make us something to eat."

"And here was looking forward to one meal that wasn't pre-packaged and frozen," Dean grumbled.

"Stop whining," Harry ordered, setting to the kitchen to check the icebox. Inside the refrigerator was leftovers from a Molly Weasley-cooked meal (brought over by Hermione) and a few military-grade rations á-la The Circus. Feeling a bit selfish, Harry briefly considered feeding Dean and Ron the rations so he could keep Mrs. Weasley's cooking all to himself, but he realized Ron was, in fact, said Mrs. Weasley's son and deserved her food. So, with heavy heart and against his better judgment, Harry took the shepherd's pie out of the refrigerator and set warming charms on them.

Once they were all warmed up, Harry brought them into drawing room and set them down on the table in front of the fireplace.

"So," Harry started, once all had started to dig in, "What's this about 'relevant memories'?"

Ron sighed again, procuring a small, stoppered vial with silvery wisps billowing within it, signifying the redhead held someone's memory. "It's mum's," Ron gestured by way of explanation. "She said she had been going to the market that day and saw two men outside of Xeno's house. Mum thought nothing of it, she didn't get a very close look and apparently old Xeno had people coming and going all the time... though, she said that they usually wore white."

White. The color of the robes of members of the Circus Information-Gathering Unit. "And the men she saw that day?"

"Black. Fully covered."

The significance was not lost upon anyone. "Death Eaters?" Dean asked.

Ron shrugged, eyes betraying the worry his body seemed to lack. "Dunno. It isn't as if the Eaters are a big shark now that Voldemort's tossed it, but, they did have a beef with Xeno. Couldn't for the life of me tell you who united them, if it was. Bellatrix is dead and Malfoy's been living the life of a recluse and saint since the war. A buggering model of _perfection_, that family!"

"They're adaptable," Harry shrugged.

"And a stint in Azkaban would have done the plonker a world of good," Ron shot back; both Dean and Harry chuckled. "In any case, Eaters are a possibility, but unlikely. We're probably looking for someone with a grudge against ol' Xeno, someone just mental enough to attack him."

"So..." Harry began, "where do I come into this equation?"

Ron crossed his arms. "Well... I need a pensieve. And I could really use that brain of yours on this one, see if you can find anything I can't."

"Why don't you ask Hermione?" Harry questioned, "I can give you a pensieve but I've got my hands full on this one, Ron. She could help you out."

"Yes," Ron started, "she can, but I really don't want her doing Auror work. It was bad enough at Malfoy Manor... thank Merlin she didn't end up like us; I reckon I wouldn't be able to focus on a single mission being all worried over her."

Harry realized then that Hermione still had not told Ron about her impending plans. He would have to talk some sense into the brunette soon:

"Right," Harry started, though he wasn't totally sure he could keep the disbelief out of his tone. Ron did not seem to notice, however, Dean did, and gave the DCI a meaningful look. "Fine. I'll help you, but it'll have to wait a few hours. Dean and I are heading up to see what we can do about getting a subpoena to Gringotts. Are you free anytime after six?"

"Nope, not tonight. They've got me working Graveyard."

"Shite. And I'm not available tomorrow. Saturday good?" Ron nodded:

"Perfect," he said, "will you bring a pensieve to my flat, or should I come here?"

"Here's better," Harry responded deftly. "Now go back to your flat, and get some sleep. You look you'll need it for tonight."

Ron smiled and said something about Harry always 'having his six' and made his way to the fireplace, before turning back to the DCI. "Has... erm..." He began awkwardly. "Has... has Hermione been acting... I dunno, _oddly_, to you lately?"

"Oddly?" Harry nearly squeaked, which was impressive, coming from a man of the DCI's stature. "Oddly how?"

"Differently than before?"

Harry's nasty sarcastic side merely shot a 'well, that narrowed it down a lot!', but he resisted the impulse to say that aloud. Truthfully, Harry had noticed a lot of things about Hermione _differently than before_ over the past month, and it was a little bit maddening (also, hardly the thing Ron would want to hear him speak of), but she herself had not behaved any differently than before. With the exception of her impending Auror training. The only thing he noticed differently was the way her hair shone in the firelight, how her eyes sparkled when she spoke of a topic that interested her, how she positively _glowed_ when Harry heaped praise after praise on her brilliant mind.

"Er... nothing," Harry shrugged, trying to sound convincing, though he was very sure he was failing. All he had now was Hermione on the mind. "I haven't really noticed a difference."

Ron looked reassured. "Thanks mate," he said, "I knew I was overreacting."

With that, and a flash of green flame, Ron was gone, leaving Dean behind with an arched eyebrow. Harry collected the plates, watching the dark-skinned wizard out of the corner of his eye. When the one-sided staring contest became too unbearable, Harry looked up and nearly _barked_ out a 'What?'

"Nothing, mate," Dean started, "just wondering why you were acting so strange around the topic of Hermione."

"I think you're trying to be overly-perceptive, Dean," Harry started, "now you're just assuming."

"Assuming, am I?" Dean smirked. "Why'd you freeze up on the topic of 'Auror-work', then?"

Harry sighed, deeming Dean safe to tell about Hermione's predicament. "Promise you won't tell?"

"Auror's honor."

"I froze because it means I have to talk to Hermione."

"About?"

"About why she still hasn't told Ron she's joining Auror training school in January."

Dean wore a positively wicked grin all the way outside, which melted as he saw the overcast skies. "Reckon a storm's coming," he said.

"Yep," Harry agreed, tightening his jacket around his waist.

Just then, a flock of magpies passed the two Aurors, myriads of black and white plumage proving to be a tasteful addition to the stark backdrop of the rapidly graying sky. Dean sighed wistfully. "Probably trying to get to shelter," he muttered to himself. "Harry? Do you ever wish you could be like them? Just fly away from the storm, looking for shelter?"

Harry gave Dean an inquisitive look. "Mate," he started haltingly, "are you on drugs?"

Dean's laughter shook the sky, so loud it made even the mooring thunderhead above sound paltry in comparison.

* * *

_2:25 PM_  
_St. Schill's Courthouse, Liverpool, UK_

"Just let me take care of this," Dean had said as the two Aurors exited his car, rain pouring down on them.

Harry was only too willing to let the DS take point on this one; he had not used a judge's writ in quite some time, considering he usually could go to Kingsley and whatever he needed would usually be done. It was a bit of a sobering experience to not have the Minister of Magic at his beck and call, but Harry thoroughly enjoyed being as any other Auror would be.

The interior of the Courthouse was not exceptionally large, though it was fairly crowded. Wizards and witches hurried to and fro, pushing and shoving past each other while men, in high chairs getting their shoes shined by charmed brushes and rags, alternated between reading the Daily Prophet and looking out impassively over the crowd, as kings would their fiefdom.

An air of pomposity and imperiousness surrounded the many barristers and solicitors rushing from place to place, and still, the men in their high-backed, wooden thrones stared at all the lowly men and women as though they were too impure to step into the courthouse. Harry immediately decided he did not like the place, and would be more than happy to never return, but he obediently followed Dean to a side room where an aged man in midnight-blue robes sat behind a desk, looking absolutely knackered.

"Judge O'Riordan," Dean greeted respectfully.

"Ah, Thomas!" The man called jovially, jumping up from his desk. Harry noticed the man was absurdly thin, and looked rather emaciated and awkward running towards Dean to shake his hand. "How nice to see you again, and you're frien - bless my soul! Is that _Harry Potter_?"

Dean smirked wryly. "You wouldn't believe how much he hates it when people do that."

"Do what?"

"The whole 'bless my soul!' business," Dean shrugged, "it's right ingratiating, I s'pose."

The Judge looked from Dean to Harry for a moment and boomed out in laughter. "Well, serves me right, then! Come in, come in, both of you," he managed to get out between his throaty peals of laughter.

Soon, Harry found himself in a chair across from Dean, playing the mute as his friend tempted the judge:

"So, Harry here is on leave from the OIM and was placed in our unit for the time being," Dean started, gesturing at the DCI, "and he reckons we've got ourselves a terrorist up in these parts, though we can't be sure."

O'Riordan's face went from jovial to grave in a matter of seconds. "What?" He asked, face aghast.

"We've been investigating the drug trade," Dean backpedaled, apparently this wasn't the reaction he was expecting, "Shankly Crew. Harry here thinks he saw Nicholas D'Arcy at one of the towers, clear as day. We've even got photographic evidence. And, Shankly's been consorting with this fellow. When we went to arrest Ahmet Özek last month, we thought we may have spotted the two together."

"And you're only telling us about this _now_?" The judge's voice was low, dangerous.

"I-uh..." Dean began.

Harry decided to fib for his flailing friend, stone-faced. "We had no reason to believe it was D'Arcy, and I wasn't completely sure, even when we spotted him with Shankly. It was only after I cross-referenced him with our terrorist database that I found it was, indeed, D'Arcy. That was last night."

Dean looked grateful.

"Now, you two are telling me the truth, are you?" Both men nodded at the Judge's question. "And does your DSI know anything about this?"

"We assume DS Finnigan is informing her as we speak," Dean took this one.

Seamus, most assuredly was not doing so, Harry knew. They had to contact the Irishman, and fast.

Dean quickly secured their subpoena with the knowledge that Judge O'Riordan would be contacting the OIM's Anti-Terrorism Unit to take a trip to the land of the Liverbird, as both men practically sprinted out of the courthouse, Dean fumbling with his phone and Harry fumbling with Dean's keys.

"Come on you drunk prick, answer the phone!" Dean all but shouted as he indicated that Harry should drive. Harry knew, as he started the car - _Manual? Why bloody manual? -_ and shifted into first gear, speeding off, that O'Riordan might be calling Rodgers right now, if not on the phone with the OIM to send up a veritable battalion of Anti-Terrorism Aurors.

Soon enough, Dean made a sound that was halfway between a squaw of joy and choking on his own spit, meaning, of course, he had gotten through to Seamus. "Listen, Seamus, mate," the dark-skinned Auror began, "I need you to tell both Dennis and Rodgers we just saw Nicholas D'Arcy yesterday, that Harry only pieced it together _yesterday_. Not last month. Yesterday."

After what seemed like an unnecessary slew of reassurances from the Irishman, Dean snapped his phone shut and high-fived Harry. "Brilliant stuff, mate, this job."

* * *

_5:43 PM  
NIM - Drug and Narcotics Section Briefing Room, Liverpool, UK_

Harry watched, slightly tired, as the Anti-Terrorism team stood at the center of the Narcotics briefing room, barking out orders. The leader, a man with graying black hair and a grating voice kept asking for Rodgers, whom Dennis blithely told was in conference with Seamus. Harry found himself leaning atop his desk next to one of the cloaked and hooded AT Agents, whom also seemed to be as casually disinterested in the going-ons as he.

"You don't seem to be quite pleased to be here," Harry started in a low voice.

The AT Agent turned to him, once realizing Harry was talking to them. "I'm not," the voice was a harsh, though not altogether unattractive, female voice. "I rarely get to see my sister because of this job, and I was supposed to see my family tonight. Your little terrorist stunt stopped me from being able to do that, Skipper."

"Skipper?" Harry asked, amused.

"Please, everyone here can tell you're Harry-bloody-Potter; this was your idea. Captain of the arses."

Harry snorted and shook his head. "What is it with everyone and _assuming_ these days? I have no more power of this unit than you have over Old Man River there."

The woman laughed, a soft, trilling, but also mocking, laugh. "Old Man River? Interesting comparison. But, nevertheless, I'd be hexed to think your _accomplishments_ haven't somehow given you some weight to throw around. In fact, I hear that you were able to use your fame quite aptly back with the SCU in London."

"And then I saved a muggleborn and got transferred for insubordination. Even I'm not above procedure." Harry shrugged.

If her hood had been off, Harry could have sworn the AT Agent would be raising an eyebrow. "Well, that's a part of the story I haven't heard. Most people just say you got bored of policing murders."

"You shouldn't listen to what most people say," Harry answered cheekily, "they usually tend to be stupid."

"I suppose they do," the hooded woman agreed, stroking her ivory chin thoughtfully, "but I'd have thought my sister would know better. She is, after all, the girlfriend of one of your subordinates."

Harry cocked an eyebrow. "Really?"

The woman sighed and raised her hands up to her hood, pulling it back, revealing long, luxuriant, dark-brown hair that looked lightly mussed. A very pretty, angular, slightly elvish face turned to Harry, and vivid blue eyes scanned his own greens. She hesitantly extended out a small, porcelain hand:

"Daphne Greengrass, Anti-Terrorist Nobody," she said, a wry smile fixed on her face.

Harry remembered Daphne. She was a quiet Slytherin whom he never paid much attention to throughout Hogwarts. He could not help but smile back at the barb as he shook her hand. "Harry Potter, Captain of the Arses."

She had the decency to blush.

"Greengrass! If you're so bloody taken with Potter, he can show you to these Irola Towers, can he not?" Old Man River barked.

Harry shrugged. "That he can," he said motioning toward the elevators. "follow me."

* * *

_6:02 PM  
Irola Towers Courtyard, Liverpool, UK_

"Old Man River doesn't seem to like you very much," Harry remarked, after some time of silence between the brunette and himself.

Daphne sighed. "That he doesn't," she agreed, staring out the window of the car.

Harry sighed, she was a bit... defensive. Harry was not used to dealing with women like this. Hermione, Ginny, Luna, even Mrs. Weasley all had the habit of being rather forward with what they wanted from him, whether it be to get his schoolwork done (Hermione) or getting a good table at the restaurant they were to eat at (Ginny), so on and so forth. He felt out of his element with the evasive brunette.

"Get reaady to glamour yourself. Can't have DI Greengrass being seen in the slums."

"Mmm..." Daphne agreed, still not paying attention as she lazily turned her hair blond and and her eyes green with her wand.

"You should make yourself a little more... erm..." Harry trailed off, trying to find the right word, "homely."

"What?"

Harry pointed at Bigs and Little, the two Russian mooks whom stood guard at the gates. "Those Ruskis are little handsy. The less pretty you look the less likely you'll be accosted."

Daphne nodded. "Don't worry, Potter, I'll be fine," Harry shrugged, not really caring one way or another, "Would be nice if I could do this without the wand."

Harry smiled. "My godson's one," he said fondly, turning his own hair the mahogany color of Daphne's natural hair color and his eyes the light blues of Ron's.

"Lucky boy," she remarked.

"Unlucky _me_. The little git morphs into different children whenever I take him to the park to play with the kids so I can't pick him out when we have to leave."

Daphne laughed at that. "Harry Potter outsmarted by toddler?"

"Yeah, well... he takes after his father in that respect," he began embarrasedly. "let's get going."

Greengrass nodded as they both opened the doors to the car Harry had been driving, an on-loan Renault that drove something horrid, but was sturdy and dependable. The brunette-now-blonde fell in step with the taller DCI as they stopped by the two Russian mooks, one of whom (Glebov) gave Daphne a suitably lecherous look. While the pat-down Harry received was quite tame, Daphne's was a bit more _involved_. Once done with, Harry gave the DI an 'I told you so' sort of look, and the witch shot back a very frosty glare.

Today there were very little customers at the Courtyard, though Harry knew that it was a temporary lull in sales, almost a siesta. The real slinging did not begin until it was dark outside.

"It's quiet," Daphne murmured.

Harry nodded. "Wait two hours. It'll be quite loud, then."

He pressed on towards the largest of the towers, leading Daphne up the stairwell to Room 311, where Dennis already was, standing by. He looked up as Harry opened the door:

"What took you?" He asked, before noticing the pretty blonde next to Harry. He nodded and flashed Harry a wicked grin, which Daphne took notice of:

"Dispell those thoughts, Mister Creevey, and tell me what I'm here for," she said, turning back into a brunette.

Dennis drew upwards, still smiling that Cheshire Cat grin. "Pictures, I'm assuming."

He bent over to a stack of photos and passed them along to the tall woman, whom moved back close to Harry to see if he could point out D'Arcy. "Non-moving pictures. A bit... _muggle_ of you, don't you think?" Her voice did not express disapproval, as Harry might have expected from a Pureblood, but rather restrained curiosity.

"Wizarding photos are useless, given all the shite we'd need to filter through to get one bleeding picture. With one of these, we can get five, and it tells the story just as well." Dennis explained.

Daphne nodded. "Not a half-bad idea. I wish the dolts at the OIM would follow that policy."

Harry smirked, adding in his own two cents. "The OIM is the _Old_ Irish Metre for a reason. London's filled to the brim with Purebloods who won't let go of the 'Ancient Ways' and they, naturally, scoff at Muggle technology; the NIM's a lot more lax on what we can use."

Greengrass reached into her jacket and pulled out another picture Harry could not quite make out and seemed to compare it to one of the pictures Harry took of D'Arcy. Once satisfied, she turned to Harry:

"It sure looks like him, though I'll need eye-to-eye confirmation," she said.

Harry already did not like where this was going. "Which means?"

"That we'll be waiting here until Mister Terrorist decides to show up."

Dennis looked up at Harry as if to ask 'Is she serious'?

"Yes, Mister Creevey," Daphne began, noticing the look on the younger man's face, "I'm quite serious."

"Bugger," Dennis replied morosely.

"Well, now that we're here," Harry muttered, pulling a cigar (of which he had taken a liking to over the past month) out from the inside pocket of his coat. Dennis made a face when Harry lit up the brown deathstick:

"Christ, Harry, why do you smoke? It's bloody awful for your teeth, your breath, your lungs, your brain-"

"Last year I was on assignment in Africa. Got bitten by a mosquito and caught malaria," Harry replied, intent on shutting the blond up, "even with magic, it took four days to clear up. Worst. Four. Days. Of my life. Including Voldemort. I smoke because I don't like mosquitoes. Smoke keeps them away. Nervous habit, I s'pose."

When Dennis looked disbelieving, Harry added a: "Ask Ron if you think I'm lying."

Dennis, as Harry expected, shut up while Daphne strolled casually up to the raven-haired Auror:

"Got another?" She asked.

"Maybe," Harry said.

The brunette cocked her head in exasperation. "Would you mind terribly if I bummed one off you?"

Harry saw Dennis giving both of them disgusted looks and grinned like a shark. "Why, of course, DI Greengrass," he stared directly at younger and living Creevey all the while as he procured another cigar for Daphne, whom chewed off the end with supernatural vigor and lit it with tip of her wand. She breathed in, and out:

"Oh, Merlin, I was dying for a tab," she said, appraising the cigar. "Not quite as good as a cigarette, but to each his own."

"You can give it back," Harry suggested; the brunette snatched the cigar away protectively:

"No, no, I'll keep it. It's still good," she defended.

Harry laughed. "If you say so."

"You two are disgusting," Dennis bemoaned his fate, "bloody cigars, and bloody mosquitoes and bloody malaria, and _bloody terrorists_!" Harry wore the same exultant grin as Daphne as they realized the beat the now-raging non-smoker into one rather moldy corner of the tenement.

* * *

_6:59 PM_

Harry sighed, looking at his watch. His cigar had finished itself off about ten minutes earlier, and Daphne had finished hers as well. Faced with the prospect of no nicotine and complete and total boring silence for Merlin knew how long, Harry decided to start conversation:

"Dennis," he started, the bored blond looked back at him. "Why pictures? Why waste your time doing something so..."

"Boring?" The MLE Officer supplied, an ironical smile playing upon his lips. "You know why, Harry."

Harry grimaced. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. That's your problem. You shouldn't be apologizing for something you couldn't have ever helped." Dennis replied, stonily looking out the window. Daphne, clearly the odd woman out, sat up straight and looked between the two males in muted interest.

Harry let his own bitter smile out. "Everyone tells me to stop doing that. As if you could suddenly stop caring about what happens, as if you can suddenly shirk off responsibility for what you'd done."

"Colin wouldn't have wanted this, you know," Dennis began, ignoring the anti-terrorist agent in the room. "He worshipped you. It'd tear him to pieces to see you doing this to yourself. Couldn't you just compromise and try not to blame yourself?"

"Never," Harry replied, now grinning widely. "No compromise, even in the face of oblivion."

Dennis simply gave Harry a pitying look and Daphne looked between the two men with something akin to enrapturement. Perhaps realizing she was intruding, the Agent excused herself to the water closet.

"I originally wanted to do landscapes. People. You know, Hogwarts the day after the battle, people injured in the fight," Dennis started. "Seemed fitting. But... you know. I thought it was a stupid idea and let the camera alone, taking this job. Now that I'm with pictures all the time, it's easy to see what Colin liked so much about them. One perfect instance in time."

Dennis held up the picture Harry took of Nicholas D'Arcy, standing at the corner of the tenement buildings, smoking a cigarette, staring at the ground while all sorts of people passed him and did not pay the man any mind.

"It's a microcosm," Dennis continued. "Everything a man ever did, ever will be, can almost always be caught in this one, perfect moment. You, Greengrass, and I, sitting in a dirty flat, watching dealers sling Agilian is a microcosm, too. About the work that never goes rewarded. About the war that never ends."

"The war that never ends..." Harry remarked, remembering that he had described the drug trade to Stark in the same manner.

The blond reached into the satchel he always carried around and tossed Harry a stack of photos. "I always keep them around. They're good reminders." But it wasn't of drug dealers, or D'Arcy in his brooding corner of the world. It was picture after picture of Harry, Seamus, and Dean. Sitting at a table, discussing plans; Teddy sitting atop Harry's shoulders, it was taken on the Bring Your Son to Work Day; a raunchy pub night Harry had made Hermione attend, the two of them sitting at a table in quiet, candid conversation amongst the rowdy Aurors surrounding them. Harry remembered he was trying to convince Hermione to think really hard about becoming an Auror, because the drunkards around the two would be her peers. But even further back as Harry flipped, he could see a definite stylistic change. This photos looked slightly old and worn. And they were: Harry, Ron, and Hermione during their sixth year; a picture of Lavender Brown gazing wistfully out one of the windows in the Gryffindor Common Room; Seamus and Susan through Hogwarts walking hand-in-hand. The older ones were definitely Colin's.

Harry studied the pictures carefully.

"And what a war it was," Dennis finished sadly, before straightening up and correcting himself: "Is."

The rest, Harry knew, was best left unsaid.

The door to W.C. opened, and Daphne emerged, lip curled in disdain. "Interesting mold you've got growing in the loo."

"I'm... sorry?" Dennis questioned lightly whilst Harry shrugged; the brunette scowled.

The DCI wondered for the briefest moment how he could have gone six years to school without ever paying proper attention to her? Was she part of Pansy Parkinson's gaggle of Slytherin girls? Because her sister, Astoria, was quite the 'blood-traitor' and had even been able to temper Malfoy somewhat from his bigoted ways (though, Harry claimed the revelation of nuclear weapons to the blond must have done something to raise his respect for the non-magical race), and so far the elder of the Greengrass sisters seemed to have taken quite a shine to NIM procedures compared to the more old-fashioned OIM.

"Do either of you know a place to stay overnight?" Daphne asked. "Because if it is, in fact, D'Arcy, we'll be forced to stay in town a few days, and, unfortunately, the Ministry won't be paying. You know how they are on law-enforcement these days."

"If it isn't in London..." Dennis began.

"... it doesn't matter," all three chorused, before exchanging looks and laughter.

* * *

_7:22 PM_

"There's the little bastard!" Dennis exclaimed by the window.

Daphne, who had been playing with a rosary around her neck, and Harry looked up in an instant, both rushing over to the window. Over the past twenty minutes, an entire gaggle of AT Agents had been led to the flat by Dean, Seamus, Freeman, so on and so forth to the point where the tenement was nearly standing room only. Dennis handed Daphne a camera and allowed her to fiddle with the zoom. Harry, squished between Daphne and a foul-smelling Auror, looked out the window to find the lonely blond figure moving towards his usual spot at the edge of the courtyard.

A pair of feet stopped just behind Harry; he turned back to see Old Man River standing behind. Apparently, he was waiting for the brunette AT Agent to hand over one Dennis' optical zoom cameras. Greengrass, however, followed the lonesome man all the way down the sidewalk, her lips morphing from an already displeased scowl to an even angrier-looking, thin-lipped frown. She turned and handed the camera to Old Man River, nodding:

"It's him, Buckley," she said. Old Man River, now named Buckley, frowned as well, taking a look through the lens.

And, suddenly. "Bugger."

Harry would have thought to laugh at the deadpan statement from the old man if the situation weren't so serious:

"Well... now what?" Harry asked.

"Now we wait for him to slip," Buckley replied. "There is no _hard _evidence on this bloke, but we'll be trying to find something. If nothing, we can at least get him off the streets a little while with a drug charge."

Daphne snorted derisively. "And how long will that keep him?"

"Ten years," Buckley wagered, "if we're lucky."

"Could leave him broke, too," Dean piped up from the back of the room.

"That won't stop a man like D'Arcy," said the smelly one next to Harry. "He doesn't need money, or shelter, or even food. The man is like smoke; he'll go which ever way he pleases, regardless of what may try to do to hinder him."

"Oh?" Seamus questioned with a smirk, obviously thinking the odious AT Agent (Harry subtly shifted closer to Daphne, preferring her perfume to the stench of refuse) was being melodramatic. "And why is that?"

The AT Agent's face was absurdly grave as he spoke. "He is not afraid of death."

"Ooh, nice and _cryptic_," Seamus mocked.

Harry ignored the Irishman. "What do you want us to do, sir?"

"Easy," the old man replied, stroking the stubble on his chin, "we'll leave a skeleton crew here to work with you to bring down this Shankly fellow. If D'Arcy's here, the entire group may be compromised. That should give you a ticket into Gringotts, you can use that to check where their money has been going."

Harry smiled. "Splendid."

"It would be an honor to work with you," Buckley started, "but, alas, I am needed in London. For now..." he stopped, searching around the room. "...Zabini and... Greengrass! You'll be helping them out. Overtime pay."

A man in the back of the room's head poked up. Daphne seemed to be searching him out, and Harry noted she scowled when their eyes met. It was obvious these two did not seem to get along. Harry remembered someone named Zabini from Hogwarts, a Slytherin who was friends with Malfoy. Since that was part of the 'Git Era' - Malfoy's nickname for his Hogwarts years, not Harry's - it was likely that this Zabini fellow was a pureblood elitist, or, at the very least, was indifferent to everything muggle and muggleborn. Given Daphne's earlier praise for the use of muggle technology, Harry assumed this was the reason why the two did not get along.

It was then Harry noticed that the room had gone deathly silent. No one moved.

Buckley seemed to notice. "Well, what are you waiting for?" He roared. "_Move_!"

The flat immediately cleared of witches and wizards either glamouring or throwing invisibility cloaks over themselves. In their stead, all that was left was a sneering Zabini, a scowling Daphne, a stern Buckley, confused NIM members, and a thoroughly amused Harry. He could not help but smile as Buckley dressed the two down, telling them to behave themselves and that he needed Agent Unity at a time like this. They obviously did not agree, but said they'd work together anyways. Apparently, the smirk never left Harry's face because Daphne's scowl turned even more dour, if possible, once the duo was back in Harry's car:

"What's so _fucking_ funny, anyways?" She snarled, which took Harry by surprise. This woman may have had a lock-and-key over her own mind, but he got the feeling that it would be no hardship for her to read him the riot act.

Harry quirked an eyebrow. "Are you always this charming?"

"Only to the dense," was her response.

"Ouch," Harry deadpanned sardonically. She grimaced and looked away. Silence ensued.

After a few minutes, Harry decided to break the ice:

"You and Zabini don't seem to like each other very much," he commented.

"Oh," Daphne spat sarcastically, her tone acidic, "Is it _that_ obvious?"

"If you're going to be a tart about it, make no mistake, I'm more than capable of putting you in body-bind and leaving you out on the sidewalk." Harry replied, taking great pleasure when he noted that it seemed to chasten the angry brunette.

"Sorry," she murmured. "Bad day."

Harry shot her incredulous look. "You think?"

"Shut up," Daphne retorted, though she seemed to be in better humor than moments earlier.

"I'd like that cigar back."

Suddenly a smile bloomed on the normally-scowling brunette's face. If Harry could keep her suitably entertained and unagitated, this partnership between the Narcos and Anti-Terrorism might turn out alright.

* * *

_9:37 PM_  
_Gringotts Bank, Diagon Alley, London, UK_

"An all-nighter you are pulling, Mister Potter?" A sandy-colored goblin smiled, baring sharp teeth.

Harry groaned. "Getting close, Ripsoot," he replied, eliciting a violent, hacking sound from the goblin which must have been laughter. Feeling a little bit antsy, Harry lit another cigar and took a deep puff of it.

"Cigars you like, sir?" Ripsoot asked, filing away the subpoena Harry and Dean managed to coerce O'Riordan into giving them. Harry nodded:

"Yes, there's a certain _taste_ to them."

There was an uncomfortable rustling in the chair next to Harry, where he found Daphne readjusting herself. Dean sat to Harry's left, Seamus and Zabini stood behind them. Ripsoot found something that looked like a ledger and began writing inside. When done, he turned to Harry.

"Done, it is. When galleons are traded, contact you, we will."

And just like that, the group made their way back onto the chilly streets of Diagon Alley.

"Bloody hell, Harry," Seamus exclaimed, "how did you do that? There was barely a word said against us when we went in there."

"Perks of being a hero, I s'pose," Dean sighed wistfully.

Harry ignored that statement as his phone began buzzing. "Potter," he answered.

"Are you still in London?" Came Rodger's voice on the other side of the line.

"Yes," Harry said, "what is it?"

"Stark says he needs to see you immediately," Rodgers replied. "Just you, you can send everyone else home."

"Erm... okay."

"Good. Go. Now."

And the phone clicked off.

"That was weird," Harry muttered to himself, turning to the coterie of Aurors. "Go on, apparently I have to talk to DSI Stark. I'll catch up with you later." The others nodded and were off.

* * *

_10:26 PM  
OIM - Office of DSI Walter Stark, London, UK_

Harry rapped twice on the large double-doors to Stark's office.

"Come in," came Stark's gravelly voice. Harry entered the large office, watching the DSI's eyes rove around the London skyline through the large glass panes, the rain clouds still gathering. It was amazing, the storm was gathering in Liverpool as well.

Harry stood at attention, allowing himself to look at the murky, foggy night.

"Winter is coming," Stark said, rather suddenly.

Harry nodded. "Yes. It is."

"You must report one final time," Stark said, Harry instinctively knew what the DSI was speaking of: The Circus.

"What is it?"

Stark grinned. "One final test."

"Of what?"

"Do you still fear?"

"No."

"Good," Stark extolled. "Tomorrow evening. One final time. And then, you are ready."

"For what?"

The DSI's smile was grim as he spoke. "For everything."

* * *

_October 11, 2002 7:30 PM  
The Circus Motherbase - The Lazarette_

"You will confront fear head on, here," Zero's voice echoed all around the room. "Down there," he seemed to be indicating a large pit at the center of the chamber Harry was standing in. "Strange things are possible in the Lazarette, things believed _impossible_. You must remember this is _all real_. There is no magic down there. Only you." This part of the motherbase was far more ancient than part Harry had seen prior. Bricks with ancient runes carved into them were inlaid into the walls, covering ever square inch of the antechamber.

Harry observed the large pit. What could possibly be down there waiting for him?

Before he could ponder the prospect, a shadow materialized in front of the pit. Then three. Then ten. Then thirty. All of them were dressed as Harry was, as the initiated. Black armor that looked clanky and heavy, though charmed to be light as a feather, and and gleaming silver swords strapped across their backs. Harry's balaclava itched, sweat rolled down his forehead, but he showed no sign of discomfort, wearing the same practiced ease as the thirty men before him. His eyes felt light without his glasses, and it was miraculous that he could see clearly, a gift of resizing his eyeballs in socket courtesy of Oracle. A similar sword, short, straight, one side dull and one side sharp, was situated on his own backside.

His palm itched, but he showed nary a twitch. The group, working as one united phalanx, split apart down the middle, allowing one man through as the Red Sea parted for Moses. Harry could tell by his gait that the man walking towards him was none other than Zero. At his side, he carried a chalice containing some sort of potion.

"Drink it," he said once he stood an arm's length away from the balaclava-clad Harry, thrusting the chalice in the green-eyed man's direction. "Just one sip. No more than that is needed."

Harry complied, drinking only one sip of the murky purple liquid inside.

"Good," Zero said, once he affirmed that Harry had drank. "Now, descend into the Lazarette."

Harry felt his vision go hazy as the phalanx that Zero emerged from swallowed him again in practiced, precise movements, before splitting down the middle once more, allowing Harry passage to the pit they called the 'Lazarette'. He walked toward the edge, feeling slightly tipsy, the potion must have been spiked with something. Before Harry could contemplate any further, a large and seemingly invisible hand pushed him over the edge.

He knew he was falling, but felt no fear. Zero had said there was no magic in the Lazarette, so Harry knew he must rely on his own strength, angling as close as he could to the stone wall, unsheathing the blade from his back, and striking it quickly into the wall, holding onto the handle with all his might as he slowed to painfully inertial stop. Harry looked down, seeing only blackness below.

One of Zero's earlier lessons came back to Harry as he looked into the abyss:

_"You must learn to never fear the darkness. Light is dangerous. It will betray you, leave your enemies to find openings. The darkness is your friend. You must simply remember to use the other senses."_

Harry pulled a loose pebble from the uneven stone wall, dropping it below and closing his eyes. Listening. Three seconds later, he heard a soft plop. There was water at the bottom. It was safe to drop, but Harry knew he must steel himself for a watery landing as he pulled the sword out of the stone and fell.

Moments later, he felt himself in cold, fragrant waters. It smelled... clean. As if Harry had dropped into some sort of underground grotto. Opening his eyes, it was still near impossible to see, but Harry held his breath and swam to the surface, whereupon the murkiness of the water was offset by the deep blue glow of some sort of grotto. Pale light covered parts of the large cavern, but most were still covered in long shadow. Harry looked up, but it appeared the entrance to the Lazarette had sealed itself off. Harry had to conquer whatever lay in this cavern.

He squinted, looking around, eyes finally coming to rest on a black-cloaked, hooded figure standing by a blue ball of light on a circular patch of land amongst the rocks and water, layered with black sand; the blue flame seemed to be the energy source for the dim light in the room. Harry swam slowly, so as not to make any noise as he crept closer to the hooded figure.

Once on land, Harry kept his sword close, intent on pouncing on the hooded figure when it turned, fast, vicious. Harry was caught a few feet behind, sword still gripped in hand. A long, bony, ivory hand shot out from the robe's sleeves and to the figure's hood, pulling it back.

Harry could barely believe what he saw:

"I..." he started, "I killed you."

The cold, sneering voice returned. "Did you really think that you could kill _me_?"

"I saw you. In the morgue."

A cruel smirk formed around his pallid lips, reaching all the way to his blood-red eyes, his noseless countenance giving Lord Voldemort a positively snake-like appearance as Harry surveyed his former enemy:

"One does not have to be living to be immortal."

* * *

**A/N:** Sorry for those who wanted a DotU update, this just sucked me back into it. I'll have a chapter for you sometime soon. As for TKoL, many of you might be wondering what the hell just happened. Make no mistake, Voldemort IS dead and Harry IS going through a test. He will not suddenly become a mega-villain. Also, I chose a time-skip mainly because Harry's training is not terribly important, and it would add tens of thousands of words to an already long fic. I wanted to start getting into the meat of the plot and couldn't really waste all that time on Harry's training, which isn't all that character-defining to begin with. Sorry if you wanted to see that.

As for next chapter: Lots of Harry and Voldemort, lots of interaction between Harry and the other two-thirds of the trio.

Yes, Daphne and Blaise are important. They will not simply disappear.

Chapter Notes:

"Er... Let's not go to Camelot..." – Is from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, King Arthur says it after the song about the Knights of the Round Table.

The Fount was mentioned in The Prologue, though it Harry is speaking of a branch with no connections to the one in the Middle East.

Just as not being able to get what you want is a theme with Seamus, the birds is a theme associated with Dean and the photos with Dennis. Pay attention for any further references.

Dean and Harry lie about D'Arcy because they'd no doubt get reprimanded for sitting on that knowledge for over a month without telling anyone.

Skipper – Daphne's nickname for Harry comes from Association Football (Soccer for us Yanks), in which the Captain of a club is usually called the 'Skipper'.

Daphne herself is a deconstruction of typical fanon Daphne. We know very little about the real Daphne, so little that there is never consistency as to whether she is a blonde or brunette in most fics concerning her. One thing, however, that I see quite often, is the 'Ice Queen' portrayal. I'm not quite sure if that's Canon, mainly because I don't think Harry much talks about her, but I'm sort of reversing that. As you can see, Daphne in this fic is a smoker, rather uncouth, foul-mouthed, and can be a practical joker. She also has a bit of a history with men, though that will come up later. In any case, she's a character I'll have a lot of fun with.

"Winter is coming" – Yet another one of this fic's many references. This one is to the 'A Song of Ice and Fire' series by George R.R. Martin (or Game of Thrones, for those of you who watch it on TV), where one of the major families', the Starks, coat of arms is 'Winter is Coming'.

Harry is not lying about Malaria. His aversion to mosquitoes is one of the reasons why he smokes.

Also, a big thank you to all who reviewed last chapter. Special mention goes to **REV042175** and **Sil Arion** for what were, perhaps, some of the most flattering reviews I've ever received: You guys are awesome! Thank you all for the reviews; feedback is what keeps me writing!

Now go and send me some more!

Thanks for reading,  
Geist.

l  
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(Do I have to beg again?)  
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V


	10. Do You Have Protection?

Disclaimer: All things Harry Potter belong to JKR. And Holy _Christ_ is the beginning of this chapter psychological. I may have had to be more wordy than I expected because I'd probably end up losing people amid the psychoanalysis.

Summary: Harry confronts fear itself. Ron has a memory. Daphne reveals some bad news, Dean gets called in on his day off, Dennis is sleepy, Harry questions Hermione on her reticence to speak to Ron about the Auror Program, and Teddy has trouble sleeping.

* * *

The King of Limbs

Part 2

"It is held in the hands of other men."  
- Tom Riddle Jr.

VIII: Do You Have Protection?

* * *

_October 11, 2002 7:38 PM  
The Circus Motherbase - The_ _Lazarette_

"One does not need..." Harry repeated, a little dazed. "Then you aren't real."

Voldemort's smirk was poisonous. "Am I? I have done more to tie myself to this world than anyone else has done previously. I know more than you could ever hope to. Do you not think my ways are beyond that of life and death? _Supernatural_, even?"

Harry tried to move, but found himself rooted to the spot. Magic.

He had to say something, _anything_. "But... you _died_."

"Oh... this tripe again? You really are a broken record, Potter. As I said, one does need to be alive to be immortal. One only needs to pass on an idea. A feeling. A facet of oneself." The pale-skinned man stalked over to Harry, pressing a long finger to Harry's scar. The DCI flinched, remembering how much pain it had brought him in his fourth year, but he felt nothing other than soft pressure of Voldemort's finger. "Right. In. There."

"My head? My mind?"

Voldemort nodded, slow and sarcastic, the way an exasperated adult would do with a slow child. "Good," he said. "You're catching on."

He prowled around the frozen DCI. "Swords, guns..." He muttered sadly. "How shamefully _muggle _of you, Harry. Look at you, once the shining pillar of all that was bright in the world. And now? Chasing after killers and drug dealers. So-" the scourge's voice dropped to a whisper, the sound of a cold wind on frozen metal. "-_pedestrian_. Where is your light, your brightness, now?"

Harry remained silent as Voldemort drew back, as if he had reached an understanding. "Ah. That is... _unfortunate_ for you. You can't accept what they want you to be. You are like me. A creature of the night. Of shadows. Beasts. To put you in the light would blind you. But you must understand, _dear boy_, that the times converge on all. What is now night must become day. And when the shadows are erased, you too, will crumble."

"Thank you for the advice," Harry spat, Voldemort looked amused.

"Manners, now." He patted the DCI's balaclava-bound cheek. "I know what it is like. To be lost, to have to befriend the darkness. To always be... angry. That your life turned out the way it did."

Harry allowed a ghost of a smile to flit across his face, though he knew Voldemort could not see it. "Weariness. To feel it in your bones."

"And then it becomes a part of you. That Anger. That _Weariness_." Voldemort drew up to his full height. "We are not so different, you and I."

Harry nodded. "But then you had an idea that built up that anger."

Voldemort laughed, high-pitched. "Yes, indeed I did. Blood Purity. It is amazing how easy it was to fool those people-" He paused. "Do you know why I did it?"

"Chaos."

"Splendid!" Voldemort congratulated. "Perhaps I should have waited a few more years. You are much more interesting as an adult than a child."

Harry snorted bemusedly, unsure as to whether he should take that as a compliment or an insult.

"It is very easy to delude purebloods. Blood purity was merely a mask."

"A mask?"

"All men wear them," Voldemort shrugged, his tone turning acidly sarcastic. "Look at muggle history. The Jewish population was a scapegoat for depression-era Germany, a people to blame for the vast misfortune of the fools at the Reichstag. They were doing well while hard-working Aryans were left dust," here voice took on an outright mocking tone, "Adolf Hitler was able to manipulate that resentment, that _anger_ at a more fortunate race of peoples.

"It was just as easy for me. They say that those who do not know history are doomed to repeat it. But what of the man who has studied those history books that the rest of the world has forgotten? Such was the clime I entered the wizarding world. Purebloods treating Muggleborns the same way Germans did the Jews. It was _too_ _easy_. All the wizarding world needed was a man like Hitler to spark its powderkeg."

Harry scoffed. "You really _are_ a loony."

"I prefer genius," Voldemort returned, "You see, ideas are like fire. Fire spreads. Fire rises. It can do nothing but consume. And when you spread an idea so _volatile_ that it divides the very _world_ in two, you are in a position of power. To give Purebloods that _dream _of theirs, a world without _muggle influence_. And you can easily manipulate people when you seem to be a paragon of their ideals. They buy into your false ideal so quickly that they don't even contemplate that you might not stand for what they do. But, it can't be helped; fire spreads. All you need is that little bit of flint and tender and the all nature is yours to lay waste to.

"The people are fools," Voldemort continued, his voice like silk, "deep down you know it just as I do. Just as Dumbledore did. He did not trust people, though he fought for them anyways. Why do you think he was so... _manipulative_? The _people_ cannot be trusted. They will use you, abuse you, and when they are done with you, discard you like old refuse. That, Harry, is your fate.

"You cannot run from the times, nor the people. They are blind, mad dogs." His smirk turned cruel. "You said it yourself, people are only as moral as the times they live in enables them to be. And you are forced to be their protector. You are forced to be the watchman for all dangers real or imagined. But whom watches over the watchmen, Harry? When those as 'moral as the environment allows them to be' rise up against you? Do you have protection from the mob, from the times?"

Harry's eyes widened. He had said that to _Seamus_. How would _Voldemort _know that he said it?

"I showed you their true nature. Newspapers slashing your reputation, people turning into madmen because of _fear_. And yet, you still fight for them. Why?"

The raven-haired wizard stared ahead. "Because. It was my duty."

"_Duty_?" the high-pitched, hoarse voice returned, amused. "Your _duty_ was not to die for an ungrateful populace. Your _duty_ was not to be a pawn in the machinations of two old fools whom fought a _war_ over hubris!"

Was Voldemort... _self-deprecating_? The pale, snake-man had never exhibited doubt or derision in his actions prior. He glided to Harry, placing a hand to the mask and ripping it off:

"You have given them _everything_. And only _they_ reap the benefits. Have you not given enough? Would you not accomplish so much more with your mind, with your ingenuity, than laying your broken body amongst the dead that make up the foundations of your _new society_?"

Harry allowed a ghost of a smile to envelope his face. "My body is all I have to give."

Voldemort drew back with a sneer and something that sounded suspiciously like a snort. "You delude yourself, Potter."

Harry shrugged... or, at least, he tried, given he was rooted to the spot. Voldemort looked at the struggling wizard, as if observing the invisible bindings that ensnared the young man, before he waved his hand and the restraints were gone. Harry flexed his arms, getting used to the ability to move once more, readying the sword he had been carrying.

Voldemort looked amused. "Yes, that's the spirit, Harry!" He swept away to the blue sphere of energy and stuck his hand into it, pulling out a rapier stylized with a serpent coiling around the handle, its jowls snapping over the emerald inlaid as the pommel. Harry had never seen Riddle use a weapon aside from his wand and was, admittedly, quite curious to see how the wizard handled a blade.

"This is too good," Harry remarked, already in a battle stance.

Voldemort raised his blade in mockery of traditional dueling etiquette. "_En garde_, Harry."

And the he was off. Moving with a supernatural vigor, Harry barely registered Voldemort phase out of existence and at the edge of the small island they stood upon and reappear mere feet away from him, bringing down the rapier in a manner that was definitely not suitable for the type of sword he used. Harry brought up his own blade and parried the strike, taking the moment's interruption to roll out of the way:

"Untrained, or just stupid?" Harry questioned the elder wizard's strange swordplay. Usually rapiers were used for light, quick strikes and stabs, not long slashes or trying to muscle one's way through an opponent as one would a Greatsword.

The snake-faced killer cocked his head in a questioning manner. "No, quite trained, I assure you. Though, perhaps, not in the traditional way."

Harry made good use of his seeker reflexes and jumped out of the way of an oncoming Voldemort. He did not truly have time to contemplate the unfairness of not being able to access his own magical reserves when Voldemort was so venomously using his abilities.

The clanging of steel was the sound that accompanied the soft, flowing water of the grotto. Harry slid underneath a horizontal swipe and sprang back up, using the momentum to catch Voldemort with a headbutt right to his non-existent nose, sending the former Dark Lord reeling back with a hand to his face.

"Well, Potter's grown some teeth, has he not?" Voldemort questioned to no one in particular, grinning toothily, an action which scared the living daylights out of the DCI.

Harry smirked. "All the better to tear you to pieces with."

"Do not banter, Potter. You are terrible at it," Voldemort observed soberly, slinking towards his nemesis, sword gleaming fiercely in the dim light of the cavern.

"Thank you."

"It was not a compliment."

"Any criticism from you should be taken as compliment," Harry grinned wryly, blasting from his position, leaving the stray pebbles vibrating as he moved, trying to build up speed, use as much of his own human strength as possible. The blade grew white-hot with every blow, a combination of a magical heating charm on conjunction with friction caused by vibrations in the steel with every clang of metal upon metal – a Circus specialty.

A sizzling sound was made when the former Dark Lord pushed his would-be conquerer back off the circular island into the frigid, knee deep waters and the glowing blade made contact with the liquid, causing some steam to rise.

"Earlier," Voldemort began curiously, "you said your body was all you had to give. What did you mean by that?"

Harry laughed harshly. "You know, I was never the hero they all wanted me to be. Ron, Hermione, they thought I could truly lead an army, be a _leader_. Truthfully, my worth was measured by my willingness to die for a cause."

Voldemort once again cocked his head in curiosity.

"Your horcrux had to be destroyed, and the only way it could be done was if you had succeeded in 'killing me'. And we both knew that you couldn't kill me unless I wanted to die. So Dumbledore groomed me for that very decision. To be able to stand at the end, and have the strength to say 'I give up'." Harry stepped from the fragrant water onto the island, wet boots clumping the black sand beneath his feet together.

"...You give up?" Voldemort drawled.

Harry smirked. "And I did just that. Died. As expected to."

The pallid man actually _smiled_. And, Harry noted it was not any sort of cruel smirk as the man usually wore, but a genuine, rather tender-hearted smile from the old killer. "Then we are the same."

"Oh yes. The very same," Harry grinned, lunging forward, on the attack this time. A downward swipe was met with an upward block as Voldemort tried to spin around Harry, succeeding in doing so and holding his rapier to the young man's throat.

"Defense as an offense is much more apt for you than throwing your sword like a lunatic," Voldemort chided in Harry's ear. He resisted the shiver that threatened to go down his spine.

And clarity struck. There was more to this test than facing a Voldemort doppelganger, or the shadow of what the man once was, fueled off ideas. The Lazarette. Lazarus. A man was to rise from death. From fear.

How could he have been so _blind_?

Knowing that a killing stroke was imminent, Harry realized that desperate times called for desperate measures and raised his sword arm, as if to show he was giving up. Voldemort made the crucial mistake of loosening his grip just the slightest, and Harry took full advantage of the momentary chink in the elder man's proverbial armor, swinging the handle that the sword point faced both men, and plunged it through his own stomach and into Voldemort.

Searing pain was the first thing to register, and while he had not stabbed anything crucial, there was no way to avoid the physical anguish that came with the suicidal move. The blade was still hot, cauterizing his wounds while slowly killing turned to see wide shock in Voldemort's blood-red eyes. The arm that had been holding the rapier went slack and the blade clattered to the ground as the former Dark Lord tried to wriggle his way out of the steel, but Harry held tight.

"Are you, too..." Voldemort began, "immortal?"

Harry let a smile play at his lips. "I don't fear death."

"Then... you are not. Why this silly attack, then?" Even with pain clouding them, the red orbs looked curious.

"Because there is more than one form of immortality," he reached back and tapped the elder man's forehead, "all it takes is an idea. No fear. No compromise. Even in the face of death. Because-" Harry grimaced, wrenching the sword out from Voldemort and himself with a terrific gasp, "-if you become more than just your fears and passions, you can achieve something greater than long life."

Voldemort collapsed to his knees, gasping, as Harry spun to meet the man whom had been his scourge all his life:

"Because there is still a part of you left inside me," Harry grit his teeth, "a facet of who you were, of what you did and why-" Harry tapped his forehead, "-trapped inside here. It's why you're here, isn't it?"

Voldemort managed to nod through the mutual pain both men suffered.

"The Lazarette," Harry began quietly, "presumably named after the man Jesus Christ raised from the dead, Lazarus."

Voldemort wheezed. "Skeptics will say that a man named Lazarus never existed, that Jesus was a necromancer, that Lazarus was never dead at all and the cave the man was buried in was built on natural ley lines that were more conducive to healing magic, bringing him back from the brink."

"But we both know what it is that _really_ happens here," Harry said.

"A man must die to come here. A man must die so that he can rise back to the surface." Voldemort looked up. "Well done, Harry."

Harry could not believe it himself. "The potion they gave me. It places fear at the forefront of your mind. So what's torn from you in the Lazarette is fear itself, because it's what you must destroy to rise, to thrive, isn't it? You are just a product of my mind."

"A personification of your fear, if you must," the red-eyed man clarified.

Harry nodded, raising his sword, before pausing. "If you are part of me, then how can I ever be sure what you told me of your view of Pureblood bigotry is true?"

"I do not know," Voldemort said, being deliberately vague, "believe what you will. That is the best one can hope for."

The raven-haired wizard raised the blade once more. "Any famous last words?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," Harry inclined his head at the former Dark Lord's words, "you are a shadow, Harry Potter. A stain on the perfect order of this world. What you will fight from now on will have neither name, nor nation, nor philosophy. You will fight time itself. A never-ending battle to keep that _chaos_ I spoke of alive. You may be the hero now, but one day on that lonely battlefield of yours, will come a time to choose between the times and your ideals. To keep that fire spreading, burning.

"And it will be a lonely battle. One you have no hope of winning. Your own personal hell. Where there is not but to struggle and strive until all that is left is your broken body among the foundations of the newest utopia.

"No matter what you do, no matter how hard you try, everything you touch _will burn_. Every life you touch will be consumed by your fire. And in the end, you are still alone, and everyone around you will have disappeared. You will still be a mere shadow of a man. You will still be what is _wrong_. This is fate."

Harry stood, taken aback by the Dark Lord's calm outburst. "I never took you to be a man of fate."

"Everyone has a fate, Harry," Voldemort said sagely. "It is not controlled by God, by the world, or even you. It is held in the hands of other men. Hell is other people, Potter."

"Jean-Paul Sartré," Harry recognized the quote.

"Remember it."

The raven-haired men readied the blade and plunged it through Voldemort's non-existent heart. The man seized and curled around the blade. For a moment, Harry felt his own body tense in phantom pain, knowing that he was voluntarily killing a part of himself. Conquering his fear, as one might say.

But soon, the pain ebbed away, and all that was left was a dull ache in Harry's chest as the corpse fell to the ground and seemed to fade into the black sand of the island. The ghostly blue ball of energy exploded in a hundred directions, like shattered crystal, and illuminated the entire cavern a white-blue color as the entrance to the Lazarette, until recently covered opened of its own accord. Harry knew he must climb to the top without the aid of magic. He checked his own wounds, only to be surprised when he found no evidence of the self-inflicted stab wound Harry had suffered. Testing out his previously injured abdomen, Harry found it gave him no pan and he slung the blade over his back, swimming to the wall and finding a little slot to start climbing.

This was, perhaps, the easiest part of the test. Zero had made Harry practice scaling walls without magic as a punishment for idiocy (which, Harry noted, was quite often), so the climbing was not very hard.

As he got closer to the surface, he heard voices whispering something. He could not tell what. Focus on the cracks in the stone. Climb. Left arm up. Right arm up. Feet digging into lowest rock. Climb. Repeat. Climb. Repeat. Climb.

Soon, Harry's fingertips touched flat stone as he pulled himself up to face the army of masked warriors once more.

Zero's unmistakable saunter gave him away as the phalanx parted for him once more. Harry only then remembered Voldemort had ripped off his Balaclava, and the DCI felt rather naked until Zero pulled off his own mask, revealing the hard jaw, tanned skin, and brown hair Harry had become so used to seeing as the Infiltration Unit Leader stared, cold and calculating, at Harry:

"Have you solved the mystery of the Lazarette?"

"One man must die that another man may rise."

"So, then," Zero began. "Rise, soldier, and fight with us. You have been given a second chance, a new life."

Harry kept a thin-lipped stare at the man.

"And give _us_ that new life," the brown-haired man finished.

Harry contemplated for the barest of moments, Voldemort's words coming back to him: _And it will be a lonely battle. One you have no hope of winning. Your own personal hell._

But what other choice did he have? This was hell for all men, but where else did Harry belong? It was heaven, it was hell. And, suddenly, the only answer he could give was very clear.

"I will."

"Good," Zero replied, turning to the unit of similarly dressed soldiers, "Leave us."

The phalanx complied, seemingly vanishing into thin air. Harry knew it was a new form of apparition that involved breaking down into base components of the human body and being able to move without a corporeal shell, rather than trying to transport the entire body across large distances. While one had to know the intricacies of being able to reform oneself from the smallest cell to an eyeball to one's very thoughts, it significantly lessened the risk of splinching oneself and made for quieter apparition. Due to the inherent dangers associated with breaking down one's thoughts and cells, this certain type of apparition, Cellular Apparition, was used only by those who knew nearly every facet of themselves.

Harry turned his attention back to Zero, whom said "Walk with me.". Harry complied, following the elder man:

"You've proven yourself over the past month, - well more, if you count the amount of time you spent with a time-turner - and in that time, you've proven yourself to be more than capable. In fact, you've proven yourself to be my greatest student. And yet there is still a problem."

"And what's that?" Harry questioned.

"Oracle found Agilian in your system," Zero said, pushing two large, stone doors open with practiced ease, revealing one of the more futuristic, brightly lit hallways of the Motherbase. "How long have you been addicted?"

Harry saw no use in lying. "Three years. After the war, I-"

"-We know of Tom Riddle's... addiction. And we know of how it passed on to you with the Zeitgeist Phenomena." Zero said. "But we cannot have a drug addict in our fold."

Harry's face fell, he knew something like this would happen.

"But, yet, despite that, you've still shown yourself to be far above the mettle of most other recruits. Which is why I am offering you the chance to detoxify yourself," the brown-haired man said with a smile, "You will still be part of The Circus, you will not be obliviated, and in three weeks, you should be fine, once again. All you need to do is to get past the pain of detoxing. Can you do that?"

Harry hated to think of what life would be like without the biweekly dose of Agilian, but he needed _this_ more than he needed that, and that was more than enough incentive to answer in an affirmative.

"Good," Zero said, placing a hand on the raven-haired man's shoulder. "Because after you detoxify, you will be given your first mission. Do not worry about your Auror-work, it will be taken care of by our man at the top."

Stark.

"In the mean time, do help out your Weasley friend with his case. You might find it rather helpful in a few weeks." Before Harry could contemplate the elder man's words, Zero extended his hand, took Harry's, and leaned in to whisper:

"Welcome to The Circus, Mister Potter."

And with that, he swept away down the large hallway, leaving Harry to stare out the charmed windows at the magnificent city before him.

* * *

_October 12, 2002. 2:36 PM  
Harry Potter's Residence, Liverpool, UK_

The next day, Ron came over, as expected, with a silvery wisp of memory stoppered in a vial. Harry had procured a small pensieve, one he had bought when situated in Turkey on assignment two years prior, carved from Israeli Marble, decorated with golden characters in Aramaic as well as old prayers in Hebrew and Arabic, which Harry had since found were a tribute to all three of the Abrahamic Religions. While Ron saw it for mere functionality, Harry had a feeling Hermione, whom would be visiting with Teddy later that evening, would go mad for it. Placing it in his drawing room, Harry let Ron unstopper the vial and pour the memory out into the ivory-white bowl.

"So, this is your mum's memory? Or is it Gin's?" Harry questioned politely.

Ron took a gulp from a waterbottle, which Harry now found himself obliged to give any and all guests. "It's mum's. Ginny was still at The Burrow, working on something. Some story or another of the like. She really wants to get that Belfry Award next year."

"Good on her," Harry praised; the Belfry Award was the premier British honor for top-notch wizarding journalism, the magical equivalent of the U.S. Pulitzer Prize. Harry had to admit, Ginny had some of the best editorials he had ever seen, and she really did understand how to report what she saw, never sugarcoating the bad or embellishing the good.

"I've only read a tick of what she's put out there, and half the time I wonder where her brain got to while we were at Hogwarts. She's real good, Harry." Ron waggled his eyebrows; Harry immediately read that look:

"Holy Christ," he replied, reverting to Mugglespeak, "Ron, there was a time when you'd sock me a good one for even _thinking_ of your sister that way, and now you're trying to play matchmaker?" Ron shrugged, grinning:

"How's about we take a gander at the memory?"

"By your leave," Harry swept his arms out in a magnanimous and showy manner.

Both men peered intensely into the pensieve, waiting to be ensconced in the memory. Harry looked up at Ron, whom had scrunched his forehead in concentration, screwing his eyes shut. He looked rather flatulent, by Harry's wager. With that thought in mind, a slight smirk playing at the raven-haired wizard's lips, Harry turned back to the pensieve. Suddenly, a lightheaded feeling overtook him and Harry found himself being pulled into the memory.

Molly Weasley had always been a stout witch with a temper and a funny-looking gait, one that made it seem her lower body moved faster than her upper body could keep up with, so she often appeared to be moving calmly and placidly from the waist up, and rushing like one of those Japanese Bullet Trains below the waistline.

Upon seeing the woman he had seen rarely over the past few years, her red hair (now slightly more grayish than he remembered), Harry realized just how much he missed his surrogate mother. He missed her cooking, though Hermione brought it over to his house often, he missed the atmosphere of The Burrow, he missed her fussy temperament, he even missed her _nagging_. She humped up one of the hills as a soldier would, wearing the straps to her purse as a bandolier and her wand held at the side (the war had made her slightly more paranoid) like a weary infantryman would carry his firearm after a particularly harsh day in the field. And yet, the stout woman marched on, measured waist-up, rushed waist-down.

Harry felt the warm rustling of wind from a warmer day, late August or early September... he could not quite remember the exact date Mr. Lovegood had died. The blustery draft whistled within the trees, creating, rather oddly, the sound that waves of water crashing against a shoreline would make.

Ron coughed beside Harry, perhaps to alert the raven-haired man of his presence. Harry turned to acknowledge his friend and they followed after the taller man's mother, whom continued on, unaware of either her son or his best friend being only mere steps behind her.

They came to the crest of the hill as Mrs. Weasley let out a slight cough; Ron turned to Harry, and by way of explaining said:

"She says 'the blasted thing won't go away'."

Harry nodded as matriarch of the Weasley Clan righted herself and continued on her way down the path. He asked Ron why his mother would not simply apparate to the market, at which Ron grinned, saying that the family healer had told Mrs. Weasley she had to incorporate at least a thirty-minute walk into her daily routine to keep her cholesterol in check.

They passed some beautiful landscaping, the moors in the distance, even a mountain or two beyond that. Briefly, Harry wondered what the world map would look like if all lands hidden by magic were included in them. _Maybe_, he thought,_ they might find that the world has twice the landmass the muggles think they do._

However, that was not the topic at hand, so Harry shook his head, following Molly as she spoke to a passerby, a kindly-looking young woman with a baby cradled in her arms. Mrs. Weasley cooed at the baby, whom stuck his little arms out of his bundle and tweaked her nose playfully. Molly let out a giggle Harry never thought could come from her mouth, and tickled the bundle, which let out high-pitched squeals of joy at the redhead's ministrations. Ron was outright grinning and Harry could not help but smile at the woman's antics.

"How are things at home, Mrs. Weasley?" The young mother, a pretty and pert blonde, asked politely, smiling sweetly between the middle-aged woman and her child.

Mrs. Weasley stopped and looked up at the mother. "Really Mel, dear, it's Molly. I daresay we've spent enough time with each other to be on first-name basis by now," the mother, Mel, grinned bashfully, "But things are going well. George is planning on proposing to Angelina, soon.:

"Oh, that's wonderful!" The blonde practically squealed. Harry tried very hard not to be sick through the next five minutes of the Weasley Clan's romantic prospects:

"Is this really necessary?" He questioned Ron.

The redhead raised his hands in surrender. "Hey, mate, this is the memory mum gave me. I didn't ask for all this." Harry grunted tried his best not to focus on the conversation until something was said that forced Harry from his state of practiced apathy:

"And I'm not sure, but I think young Ronald may have a ring lined up for Hermione, too," Molly was saying. Harry's head whipped around to face Ron so fast he thought he may have suffered whiplash. The male redhead simply shrugged, which Harry could take as a yes.

And suddenly, without warning, an alien feeling bubbled up in the raven-haired man's chest. He could not quite place it. But it made him feel... as if he wanted to stomp on something; to destroy something beautiful. His fingers twitched, his head ached, and he really needed to punch something. How could Ron even _think_ of proposing to Hermione? They _clearly_ weren't ready for a step as big as that! They still bickered all the time, and had not even moved in together, hell, Hermione still had not even _told_ Ron about her plans for Auror School! What could possibly make the man think that!?

_Are you sure you are not just jealous, Potter?_ Asked an inner voice that sounded suspiciously like Voldemort.

_Of course not_, was his quick reply, quashing the voice down.

Great, now he was talking to dead men inside his head.

He had to calm himself. _Breathe in. Breathe out_. _Nothing's happened yet, and you're going to talk to Hermione later; she'll be able to shed some light on it, she always_ _does._

"Congrats, I guess?" Harry said, bemused, and impressed with his ability to fight down his anger.

Ron tapped his forehead. "Mum's a salacious liar," he said, "I assure you I intend to do no such thing. Not for a few months at least."

Well, great, not for _a few months_ then.

"Who's that in front of Mr. Lovegood's house, Molly?" Mel questioned, looking off to the side once gossip about the admittedly large Weasley family had died to its embers. Harry looked with Mrs. Weasley to see two figures, swathed in black cloaks, inspecting the outside fence of the off-kilter house the elder Lovegood took residence in.

Harry knew that no matter how close he got, he would not be able to tell who it was exactly as it was Molly's memory and she clearly could not see them, but he did notice something very interesting on both of their cloaks - an All-Seeing Eye on the back, the top of the pyramid with a nondescript orb emblazoned on it, like one would find on the U.S. dollar bill. It would be very hard to make out from this distance, but, Harry, aided by his corrected and enhanced eyesight (_God bless Oracle_, he mused), was able to pick it out rather easily. Harry very much doubted that the rumors of an Illuminati that controlled the tides of all things in the world, but it was entirely possible a magical group that had to do with Xeno's death would have used the All-Seeing Eye as its logo.

"Oh, that Xeno," Molly commented fondly, "always has strange men poking abouthis house."

Suddenly, the DCI found himself back on the hardwood floor of his home, staring across the room at Ron. The redhead wore a questioning look:

"Did you find anything I couldn't?"

Harry shrugged. "You catch the All-Seeing Eye?"

"The what?"

Just as Harry was about to answer, his phone twittered on the table that had been moved away for the pensieve. Flipping up the top, Harry answered. "DCI Potter."

"It's Daphne. We need you and your homicide hard-on here."

Ignoring the foul-mouthed brunette's choice of words, Harry groaned. "How'd you get my number?" he questioned, impressed.

Daphne snorted through the receiver. "You know there are four guys here who know your phone number. It's not like I had a hard time, or anything. You may think so, but you _aren't_ the most secretive person in the world."

"Don't be snooty," Harry chided, "I'll be there soon."

He turned back to Ron:

"Ask Hermione about it; she probably knows twice as much about it as I do. Get Malfoy to do some research on the eye and see if any Magical Groups are known to use that symbol," he said, at loathe to think of what Ron and Hermione did in private. The honey-haired healer's claims to virginity hardly assuaged Harry's fears. "Unfortunately, duty calls. And it calls at all hours of the day."

"Right," Ron agreed. "I'll be seeing you, then?"

"Of course," Harry smiled, ushering Ron out into the rain and then leaving himself for the NIM.

* * *

_October 12, 2002 4:02 PM__  
__NIM - Narcotics Division_

Harry strolled into the NIM whistling a tune that sounded similar to 'The Farmer in the Dell' as he moved. He had just shaken off the sour mood that had overtaken him when he had thought of Ron and Hermione together, and with multiple assurances that he could only fill the role of best friend, Harry was starting to feel good despite the inclement weather. However, said good mood was not to last in the face of a determined Daphne Greengrass, whom, Harry had learned over the past two days, was no one to get in the way of when she had her mind set on something. Like Hermione, Harry guessed, but a lot more snide and way more violent.

"You wouldn't be so chipper if you knew what just happened," she smiled wryly as Harry met her at outside the elevator at the Narcotics Division. Harry, surprised by the sudden interruption just after the elevators opened and decided teasing was in order:

"Were you waiting for me?" He asked the brunette.

"No!" she snapped defensively, "No! No!" She paused, "Yes. Yes, I was waiting for you."

Harry could not help but snicker. "Why so defensive?"

"Shut up and let's get on point, shall we?"

"Certainly."

Daphne led Harry down the past a bunch of cubicles, haggard Aurors seated at all of them, speaking into telephones or writing up reports. A few greeted both of them with a slew of 'Potter's and 'Greengrass's. Daphne nodded frigidly at the salutations and kept up a one-way conversation with the DCI:

"Apparently some bloke that you and Finnigan had arrested last month just had his court hearing," Daphne stated, "He just got off free of all charges against his person." Harry was about to say something when the pretty brunette just barreled over what he had to share with her own words, "I know, I know, you found the bullet, the fingerprints, and he all but admitted to it when you arrested him, but this isn't a case with any jury. Just a judge, and we all know Judge Monard is about as corrupt as they get. It's got Finnigan in a right tizzy."

"Monard? He's always been known for having some controversial decisions, but this is idiotic! There's no way a person can overturn that much evidence on someone. His fingerprints were found at the crime scene, on bullet casings to a gun that he owns! Monard would have to be paid off to give out this decision."

Daphne looked at Harry seriously. That look could only mean one thing:

"You don't think...?"

The brunette laughed harshly, ice-blue eyes looking deadened. "I don't think; I know. Philius Monard is dead corrupt." Harry decided not to question _how_ she knew and instead followed her to the large, circular, oak table that had been serving as a 'meeting table' of sorts for those involved in the Shankly Case. Dennis sprawled lazily over his work, fast asleep and drooling on a photo of Hawk, one of the dealers. Freeman looked up from a set of Gringotts' bank reports, likely the movement of Shankly's money, and waved tiredly. Seamus looked right depressed whilst staring out one of the windows into the deluge outside:

"Well this has turned out to be a shite day," he muttered aloud, not really directing at anyone. A chorus of assent rose from the others as the nodding-off Zabini snapped to attention at the sudden noise, blinking owlishly, seemingly lost.

"Wha' time s'it? He murmured blearily.

"Four," Daphne said tiredly, collapsing in her chair, staring at a mountain of papers which contained mostly evidence the team had collected over the last month. "How do you do this every day and not want to commit ritual suicide?"

"Carefully," Dean drawled from somewhere behind the group. It had been his day off as well, and Harry knew Dean was never happy to be interrupted during his precious 'Dean-time', which mainly consisted of watching movies and re-runs of Top Gear. And while the Purebloods and Magical-raised Halfbloods in the room would sneeze at that interruption, Dennis and Harry understood their fellow Muggleborn's (in Harry's case, Muggle-Raised) pain.

"What have we got?" Asked the irascible movie-phile.

"Potter and Seamus lost their suspect on the Cautermall Case. I'm willing to bet that he'll be back at the Towers by day's end," Daphne clarified.

"And I'm here, why?"

Zabini shrugged. "We were thinking that you and Potter could go and meet with that Judge of yours and get him to review the case while Sleeping Beauty and I head to the Towers to see what our friends are doing with their latest batch of Agilian. Thomas, have you given any thought into trying to place a mole into the system?"

"Slow down," Harry said, "one thing at a time. We can go to see O'Riordan today, right?"

Dean nodded. "Just let me give him a call."

"-And what do you mean, mole?" Daphne cut across Harry before he could ask the same question, though her tone was much less polite than his.

Zabini glowered at the brunette. "I mean we place someone within the cabal so we can spy from the inside and do something other than snap photos of low-level dealers."

Daphne merely nodded, both former Slytherins glaring at each other. Dean looked worriedly over at Harry, whom shrugged, unable to do anything. However, Harry had to remember that the room also contained Seamus Finnigan, who was quite able in diffusing tension:

"If you two lovebirds are done going all gaga-eyed at each other, you and Denny over here," Seamus paused and indicated the sleeping Creevey, before smiling and creeping up behind the blond to shout: "HAVE TO GO TO THE TOWERS TO SNAP SOME OF THOSE PHOTOS!"

Dennis jerked awake and smashed his knee against the underside of the table, immediately grabbing for the offended extremity. "Wuzzah -ow! - God! Fuck! Merlin!" The table burst out laughing at his antics, even the normally stoic Zabini chuckled and the ever-irritable Daphne cracked a smile. "Oi, laugh at my pain, will you?" He moaned sleepily, red-faced and rubbing his knee in a circular pattern.

Still chuckling, Harry and Dean looked up at each other, nodded, and headed towards the elevators, still chuckling at the MLE Officer's misfortune.

* * *

_4:47 PM_  
_St. Schill's Courthouse, Liverpool, UK_

Upon coming to the courthouse a second time, Harry found himself disliking the Justice System even more than he had the first time around. Harry stepped out of the Dean's car and followed the taller Auror to the doorway, where a couple of barristers gave them disparaging looks. Harry raised an eyebrow at the goggling counselors and leaned in to whisper to Dean:

"What's up with them?"

Dean looked back with a smirk. "We're not exactly the most clean looking people here, Harry. I've got dreads and a goatee; your hair is a fright and you look like you've decided to become Gandalf the Black." Dean smirked and pointed at Harry's facial hair.

Harry rubbed his jet-black growth of beard absentmindedly. He had not shaved in a long while. Perhaps he had been so occupied with training and the case he really had forgotten to keep up his normal grooming habits. A little bit embarrassed, Harry shrugged and continued on, digging his hands into his pockets.

"You think they'd be less judging if they knew you were a national hero?" Dean questioned, Harry snorted:

"No."

The taller of the two men snickered at Harry's deadpan assessment as the two bumped and plodded past rushing barristers and solicitors, as well as people awaiting trials. Two men sat on the high-backed, throne like chairs whilst magicked scrubs shined their shoes. Dean told Harry to wait by the kingly men. One of the men was a brown-haired man with a namebadge that read 'Dantés' upon the left side of his suit, spoke loudly while looking down at a copy of_ The Quibbler_.

"Potter's a bleedin' _recluse_ for a reason, Danny," Harry overheard one of them say, "he's been hiding about London for the past four years, only coming out once to propose that Anti-Terrorist Coalition last year. Nobody listens to him anymore. His girlfriend's got more pull than him."

The other man Danny, a mousy blond, looked up from _The Daily Prophet_ quizzically. "Just because the Russians and Americans are too prissy to help form ATCO, doesn't mean it's a bad idea, Peter."

Peter, the brown-haired one, shook his head exasperatedly. "_Of course it isn't_. It isn't paranoid_ at all_."

"No, not really."

"All I'm saying is Potter's a war-hero, and we're indebted to him for that, but it's time we stop looking for Dark Lords in the shadows and jump at every noise. Harry Potter is a war-time man. This is peace, we don't need him anymore."

"Well, I think it's time for him to step back in the spotlight. The Ministry is a bloody pit of corruption. Did you see that Agilian Case this morning? Monard is so full of shite you could smell him a kilometer away. We need someone who can put their hands in the filth there and clean it out somehow. There isn't anyone who can do it better than Harry Potter."

"Potter coming back would be change, alright." Peter started quietly. "Whether good or bad, however, is the question. Personally, I think it'd be bad."

"And I think it'd be good."

Harry snorted from below. Peter looked down questioningly. "And what do you think, my man?"

"I don't really think you should be concerning yourself with talking about that ponce," Harry replied in a voice that was an octave lower than he normally used. "Clearly a guy who goes around and says that terrorists are everywhere has some sort of mental deficiency. Britain's never been more peaceful and the shite from across the pond isn't coming this way."

Danny looked between the two, utterly befuddled. "You people must be joking."

"Not at all," Harry replied, "Potter's a pretentious cock, always has been. And now he's paranoid, too. I think it'd be better to just leave the bloke out of sight, out of mind."

Peter shrugged, finding no fault in Harry's logic when Dean's head poked out over the crowd and he called to Harry:

"There'll be more than enough time to make friends later, Potter!" He gestured for Harry to follow. The raven-haired man turned to the sputtering Peter and the chuckling Danny:

"Well, it was nice meeting you chaps. Some other time, then?"

"Sure, Mister Potter," Danny smiled.

"Uh... that sounds nice," Peter also said.

Harry nodded and passed by the two men, whom broke out into whispers as they watched the two Aurors head to Judge O'Riordan's office. The duo squeezed their way through the ever growing throng of men and women and found themselves going through the oak double doors Harry had been through once before. Two suits of armor guarded the entrance to the hallway that contained many offices and a lounge room as well as a small cafeteria. The floors were tiled with alternating black-and-white inlays. O'Riordan stood outside his office, wig still on and looking mighty haggard, though he managed to put on a smile and boomed jovially to the two young Aurors:

"Come in, come in, boys!"

Harry followed both Dean and O'Riordan into the charming office the elder man had inherited with the job. The office, a cream-white color with soft brown hardwood floors, reminiscent of certain cinnamon-colored eyes to Harry, had one large desk at the center with a comfortable leather chair behind it, the kind a muggle business executive might use. Papers were strewn about O'Riordan's desk alongside used up inkwells and cracked quills laying in a sort of writing utensil graveyard.

Harry collapsed into one of the small, green-leather chairs set in front of the good Judge's work desk, Dean did the same. O'Riordan surveyed both men with a bemused look on his face.

"I assume the case is taking its toll?"

Dean wore his best 'fuck you' face while Harry merely grunted in affirmation.

"What we're here about is a possible case of corruption," Dean answered instead.

The Judge halted. "Are we talking about Monard's decision?"

Since Dean seemed to have developed sudden-onset muteness, Harry answered for him: "Yes."

"Look, we all know Monard is corrupt as-"O'Riordan began, but was interrupted by a loud knock at the door, "- Come in!"

The doors banged open and a rat-faced, portly Judge walked in, wig hanging askew and Judge's frock skirting along the floor. His eyes were screwed shut in intense concentration and he spoke a mile a minute:

"Frederick," he greeted tersely.

"Philius," O'Riordan returned stoically. Harry whirled around to take in the sallow man once more. Philius Monard did not look particularly imposing or corrupt, rather weak, but nothing as he expected. Monard held a file in his hands, which he raised and strode toward O'Riordan's desk, dropping it open the polished oak:

"I am taking off for the day; would you be so kind as to look over some of my writs?" Without even waiting for an answer, the man turned on his heel and strolled away, leaving behind a halfhearted "Thank you".

He opened the door and strode out. Harry and Dean stared at each other for a long moment as the door shut, and once they heard the click of said door closing, both burst out laughing, at which O'Riordan looked dismayed:

"Yes, yes, fat man hands me all sorts of work and you laugh. Tossers."

Harry stopped laughing and turned to the Judge, surprised to hear a curse coming from the venerable old man, and then back at Dean. Both laughed even harder, if possible. The Judge merely shot the two a playful glower.

"What a pompous git!" Harry snorted.

"He probably has a tiny prick," Dean agreed.

"Anyways," O'Riordan murmured, blushing at the insults directed toward a fellow Judge, "I know Monard is an arse and he's more than corrupt, but there's no way to prove it unless you can somehow implicate him in a crime, otherwise he's just another bought Judge no one can touch."

Harry eyed the broken quills on the Judge's desk soberly until a bright idea struck him: "What if... we had the bank statement of one Damian Shankly and his affiliates? And what if we just so happened to take a close look at the transactions?"

Dean seemed to understand Harry's line of thought. "You're trying to find evidence of Shankly giving Monard money, aren't you?"

"Brilliant!" O'Riordan boomed, "oh, you'll go far with a brain like that!"

Harry had the decency to blush faintly at the praise. "It's nothing major, really."

"Well, boys, tell me if you do happen to find something, because, aside from that, my hands are tied. When you've got enough, you can come to me for a Wizarding-Mobile Wire Tap. I'll be more than happy to push the paperwork for you!"

"Thank you, Judge," both Aurors said automatically.

The Judge laughed once more. "Call me Frederick, you two."

* * *

_5:45 PM_  
_NIM - Narcotics Division_

Harry and Dean returned to the NIM half an hour later to find Daphne hunched over file after file, and report after report. Seamus, Dennis, and Zabini had gone to the towers, and DS Freeman, whom had been working since seven PM the night before, had finally been sent home by Rodgers when she found him asleep on the keyboard of his typewriter in his cubicle. Dean told Harry to wait at the large oak table with Daphne while he went to see Rodgers about Zabini's idea of planting a mole in the Shankly Crew. Collapsing into one of the comfy mesh chairs, Harry surveyed the concentrating brunette. Ruffling around for the Gringotts account statement files, he noticed Daphne was nibbling on one of the beads of a rosary, the one she had been playing with two nights earlier.

"I thought you were a Pureblood," Harry started aloud, startling Daphne, whom looked up from the files questioningly, rosary dropping by the wayside and clattering on the table.

"Yes," she began with an expression of confusion, which looked rather like a sneer. "I am. I never was anything else. Why does it matter?"

Harry coughed, realizing how that may have sounded. "Ah, I'm sorry. It's just that you normally only see really devout Catholics carrying around Rosaries. I wasn't aware that wizards could be at all religious."

"Well, I'm not - not really," she said, contemplating the rosary rather philosophically, "-I'd forgotten, you were muggle-raised, weren't you?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah."

"Well, it isn't any secret that it is hard for wizards to believe in any sort of 'religion', per sé," Daphne mused aloud, talking more to herself than Harry, "most of Jesus' miracles, with the exception of the ones where he brought people back from the dead, can be accurately explained by simple magic. Turning water into wine would not be too difficult for any decent wizard.

"But, despite that we don't believe in any true religion, it's hard not to have faith in something. Most wizards choose to believe in an afterlife; I choose to believe in the Christian Heaven. The rosary calms me, somewhat. Makes me feel safe."

"Huh," Harry grunted, mulling over the brunette's words.

"Do you believe in an afterlife, Harry?"

"Sort of," Harry said, smiling bemusedly, "I also sort of wish I didn't."

"Sort of?" Daphne snorted, clearly amused. "You know, Malfoy always said you were a ponce when we were in Hogwarts, but I never took you to be nutters as well. The Prophet stopped doing that after fifth year, if my memory's not off."

"They also said Dumbledore was a great wizard when they weren't busy attacking him, but never made comment on the fact that he was probably the barmiest codger I'd ever had the fortune of meeting. Heroes are never what they're portrayed to be. Especially not me. Have you seen that fountain out front?" Harry asked, referring to the fountain of himself, Ron, Hermione, and Neville in the NIM courtyard.

"The one with you, Granger, Weasley, and Longbottom?" Daphne questioned; Harry nodded. "Yes, I've seen it."

Harry snorted. "That mask of calm confidence fountain-Harry is wearing is about the biggest lie that came from the war. I nearly about nearly wet myself thrice and suffered a heart attack while casting that disarming charm."

The candidness of the conversation, combined with Daphne's disbelieving expression caused Harry to burst out laughing.

"Hey!" The brunette exclaimed dangerously. "You aren't having me on, are you?"

"I assure you I am not," Harry explained, "your face was priceless." The AT Agent merely glowered, and Harry continued. "But, seriously. We're not as polished as everyone portrays us."

"Oh?" Daphne asked soberly, "And what's that, that dulls your shine?"

Harry merely smiled. "A little forward of you, don't you think, Miss Greengrass."

"No, actually," she grinned toothily, "if we're to be working together, I think I deserve to know of some of your foibles."

"In good time," Harry replied quietly, attention driven away from the brunette upon seeing Dean emerge from Rodgers' office with something akin to a grin upon his face. "What's the news?"

"Looks like Zabini won't have to bother me about the mole anymore; Rodgers thinks it's a good idea."

Harry nodded contemplatively. "When will we be working on that?"

"Monday," Dean replied, "when we try to convince Rodgers and O'Riordan to either get a muggle wire-tap, or one of those new models of George's Extendable Ears. Apparently the Department of Mysteries is helping make them."

"So, what else today?"

Daphne rubbed her eyes tiredly and Harry yawned, causing Dean to give the two a pitying smirk:

"Nothing else today, it was supposed to be our day off, so you can leave whenever, Harry," he replied, "Greengrass, you're still on the clock for another seven minutes. Seamus and Dennis should be back in a few; if you two are willing to wait, we can all go out for a couple of pints?"

Harry waved him off. "Not tonight, Dean-o. Hermione's bringing Teddy over and if I go waltzing around pissed, she'll probably hex me and then proceed to kick the shite out of me. Or probably send those goddamned birds after me. Besides, it's in bad form to be watching over a four year-old while drunk."

"Suit yourself, Harry," Dean shrugged lightheartedly, turning to the pretty brunette across from Harry. "What about you, Greengrass? Are you in?"

"Maybe next time, Thomas," she declined, "I have business to take care of back in London. It seems as though my sister has decided to get married and I'm supposed to be her good, advice-dispensing, big sister."

"Congratulations!" Dean exclaimed.

"How unfortunate," Harry mused in the same breath. Dean turned to Harry with questioning eyes as Daphne cracked an amused smile:

"What do you mean 'unfortunate'?" Dean asked.

Harry shrugged. "Well, unless Astoria's the fastest person to ever break up with one person and shack up again, I'd say it's unfortunate as to _whom_ she's marrying."

When Dean still looked confused, Daphne clarified: "Draco Malfoy."

"Oh," the dark-skinned Auror deadpanned. "How unfortunate."

And a good laugh was had by all.

* * *

_7:12 PM  
Harry Potter's Residence, Liverpool, UK_

Hermione, with little Teddy in tow, stopped by Harry's house later that night. Ron was apparently in Diagon Alley, looking into replacing some of his Auror equipment that had either broken or worn out in Afghanistan. Apparently British-made invisibility cloaks weathered quickly in the Afghan Heat, leaving the godparents alone with their surrogate child.

They made small talk whilst Teddy bounced up and down on Harry's lap, forcing the two to read to him until he fell asleep. Once the little tyke was out like a light, hair Hermione-brown and eyes Harry-green, both adults returned to the first floor. Harry asked if Hermione would like anything stronger than water to drink; she accepted a glass of wine. He decided this was the best time to breach the topic he had been intending to speak to Hermione about since Ron's first visit two days prior:

"So, Ron visited this afternoon to look into that memory of Molly's," Harry started. Hermione tucked her legs underneath herself and listened intently. "The reason we did it today was not because I had actually intended to, in fact, I tried to skive it off on you-" ignoring the playful 'prat' that came about from that, Harry continued, "-but he said he would be happier if you stayed away from Auror work."

Now Hermione rose up from her languid pose, alarmed and wary as a starving dog.

"And, if one uses simple logic," Harry expounded, "it might lead one to believe that you _still_ haven't told Ron of your intent to join the Auror Corps. Would you like dissuade that certain someone of the notion?"

"I-I, u-um..." she stammered, blushing in shame. A vicious part of Harry's mind enjoyed seeing her stutter so, it wasn't often that he reduced Hermione Granger to monosyllabic half-words; another part enjoyed seeing her blush, convinced she looked quite beautiful with that rosy glow upon her face.

"Why not?" Harry asked, trying to give her something tangible to answer. "You've had a month. Why not tell Ron?"

Hermione, being Hermione, decided to chew on the bottom of her lip instead of answering Harry. He suffered a few seconds of the pleasantly distracting interlude of staring at the honey-brunette's mouth. An unbidden thought of never having wanted to be a body part more than those lips at that moment snuck into Harry's mind. Catching his runaway thoughts, Harry mentally shook them from his head and paid attention to Hermione, whom seemed to slowly building up pressure, like a tea kettle, until she would have to erupt with something to say. And sure enough, in ten seconds, she did:

"Oh, Harry, I'm such a coward!" She burst out.

"Coward?" Harry repeated dumbly as the brunette fidgeted and smoothed over an imagined wrinkle in her jeans. "Hermione, forgive me if I'm being a bit dense, but what are you talking about? You've proven yourself over and over to be the bravest person I know."

"You are just saying that," she shot, rather petulantly.

"I'm not, and I certainly don't have to recount the times you've proven your courage, that speaks for itself. It's okay to be afraid, but one has to know what they're afraid of before they can adequately fear it, if nothing else."

"How philosophical of you, Mister Potter," Hermione drawled.

"Hermione-" Harry warned.

"Yes, yes, I know. I am _evading_," she snapped and halted, taking deep breaths. "I'm afraid of what he'll think. If Ron told you what he thought of doing Auror-work, what will he say when he learns that I've applied without consulting with him."

Harry was not entirely sure why she was so frightened. "Merlin, Hermione, it's not like the two of you are married."

"I know, I know. But still, he's _safe_. All my life after the war has been with him. We've lived together, lived apart, loved, planned for the future. I don't want to drive a wedge between us..."

Harry looked at his friend seriously. "Shouldn't you have thought more about Ron's feelings about this _before_ applying, then?"

"You're not helping, Potter," Hermione growled, though Harry could detect a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her lips. "I thought - I thought that I'd do it and damn him and what he wanted! But-but now..."

"Now you're having second thoughts."

She stopped and stared at Harry as it all clicked in his head. "Yeah," she said, looking a bit overwhelmed.

"Okay, Hermione," Harry started, hating to have to be the mediator of this problem. He would have much rather preferred it if Ron did blow up at her and their relationship crashed and - _wait_, what was he thinking? _Focus, Harry_, he thought, _focus__. _"Here's the first question: Do you really want to be an Auror?"

"Well, I, uhm..."

Harry smiled. "Okay, let's start small. What did you want to be when you were growing up? You know, before you learned about magic?"

"I never had such grandiose dreams as a child," Hermione began thoughtfully, "after all, the muggle world is much larger than the wizarding, and I didn't have the benefit of being the best friend of a national hero-" she playfully punched Harry's shoulder, "-I wanted to do something like my parents, but I never wanted to be a dentist. Working with teeth all day? I could barely look at my own without wanting to burst into tears."

"Ah, yes," Harry smiled, "when you had the - erm - _overlarge_ front teeth."

"A political answer if I've ever heard one, but you can say it for what they were. I had buckteeth. Simple and clean," Hermione chided; Harry shrugged:

"Well, they certainly look nice now."

The honey-brunette faked a curtsy. "Why, thank you! But, seriously, I knew I wanted to do something in medicine. Likely, I thought I would become a nurse."

"A nurse? Why a nurse?"

"Well, I-" she began demurely, "I never had very many friends in school. I knew that people instinctively trusted nurses, that everyone liked nurses. No one really liked doctors when I was growing up, but everyone remembered their nurse being kind to them. I sort of wanted people to remember me like that.

"But when I got my letter from Hogwarts, I knew that I had to be a witch. It explained _everything_ about me. Why I was so strange, why strange things happened around me. I knew the Magical World had to be mine. For the first few years I tried to keep my prospects open, possibly thinking of joining the Unspeakables or perhaps the Department for the Regulation of Magical Creatures. But, I don't think I have the mind for that anymore.

"The war _changed _me, changed _us_. I _want _to be an Auror now. I _know_ it's what I should be doing. I've started practicing again, started going over my Defense books and it - it feel _right_. I can just _feel it_. In my bones. I don't want to be a barrister, or a healer, or the blooming Minister of Magic. _This_ is what I want to do. With Ron, and with... _you_."

Harry smiled, understanding that feeling of _knowing_. "Then just tell Ron that, and I'm sure he'll understand. He'll be angry at first, but you know he always comes around."

"But why?" Hermione asked suddenly. "Why does it have to be that way? Why do we have to bicker and argue until we're sick of fighting and finally make up."

Harry did not have an easy answer for that. Because that's who Ron and Hermione were? Because they were opposites who were bound to clash over their opinions and ideals? Because they had a combative, but mutual attraction towards each other?

"We're never like that," Hermione continued more softly, as if contemplating something. "Why can't... why can't Ron be more like you?"

There was a loaded question if Harry had ever heard one, and he had no idea how to respond, so he went with a strangled 'eh?' and watched Hermione smile a little at his dumbfounded expression, as she asked a question that about near caused Harry to faint dead away:

"Why didn't we ever think of getting together?" Hermione interrogated as a police officer would a terrified teenager caught with a bag of marijuana.

"I... uh..."

"We could have stayed in that tent," she began, "forgotten about the wizarding world. Lived our lives for each other and no one else."

Harry knew he looked as incredulous as he felt. "Are we really entertaining the thought?"

"It's what bored people do, isn't it?" Hermione questioned slyly, swilling her wine around the glass it was in, taking obvious pleasure in Harry's puzzled state of mind. She smiled demurely, crossing her legs and leaning in close that Harry caught a whiff of her vanilla-scented perfume. _Evil witch!_ Harry thought, feeling comfortably numb at the throes of her heady scent.

"Yeah, I guess it is," he replied absentmindedly, entranced by her cinnamon-colored eyes, large black pupils giving her a deceptively innocent look.

"What's the matter?" She asked, looking concerned, "You look a bit dazed."

"Yes, yes, I'm fine. Your question just caught me off guard," Harry shrugged. "If we were really entertaining the idea of living together in a forest for the rest of our lives... Frankly, I'd thought you wouldn't have me."

Hermione arched a delicate eyebrow. "_I_ wouldn't have _you_? I, Plain-Jane Hermione Granger wouldn't have you, Harry Potter?"

"You're not plain," Harry argued.

"Oh please," she waved him away dismissively. "I would think you wouldn't have me. I'm plain, sometimes annoying, over-emotional, nag too much-"

"-smart, kind, loyal, prettier than she thinks," Harry cut her off with a smile. She blushed. "Especially cute when she's embarrassed." He laughed as she blushed an even brighter red and swatted at his arm with a 'Prat!'.

_Holy Christ, am I flirting with Hermione?_

She smiled and scooted over to Harry, laying her head upon his shoulder. "Thank you for talking to me, Harry."

"No problem. Are you ready to tell Ron?"

"I think," she started, "I can only hope he takes it as well as you have."

Both of them shared a chuckle.

"Any woman you end up snagging the heart of will be lucky to have you, Harry Potter," Hermione smiled sweetly, but it was a smile that did not quite reach her eyes, as if she was unhappy to have said that.

Harry ignored it and snorted. "Me? The drug-addicted, workaholic Auror? Some luck, that is."

"But luck, it is," Hermione replied, standing up and finishing the rest of her wine. "I think I should be getting home. I think I'll tell Ron on Monday after he returns from work-" she paused to grin, "-he'll likely be too tired to put up an argument."

Harry grinned. "That's my girl."

Hermione nodded and turned quickly toward the fireplace. "I'll see you, then?"

"Whenever you need me," Harry began melodramatically, "I am at your call."

She turned toward the fireplace before stopping and whirling to face Harry once more. "I never asked you."

"Asked me what?"

"What did you want to be when you grew up? Before we learned about Magic?"

"Well," Harry began thoughtfully, "I actually kind of wanted to work for the Scotland Yard."

Hermione gave him a searching look for a moment before bursting out into laughter.

"What?" Harry questioned, feeling oddly embarrassed.

Hermione just sighed. "You, the Auror wanted to be a Detective? That's _so_ Harry Potter."

"Yeah, well," Harry began, flustered, "whenever the Dursleys were out and I could watch the Telly, cop dramas from America would always be on it. I would watch them and think that one day I'd be like them. Driving Ferraris and solving crimes, It seemed a great life."

Hermione gave him a look. Harry knew that look, a barely concealed look of fury at the people whom had neglected him the first eleven years of his life. But, Hermione covered it up quickly. "And how does the real thing compare?"

"Right rubbish in the face of what I saw back then. Maybe if I move to the States, go to Florida, however..."

"The mosquitoes will _love_ you," the brunette warned. Harry suddenly felt the vaguest wanting for a cigar.

"Ha. Right," Harry shuddered.

Hermione smiled, and without warning, hugged Harry. Relishing the feeling his body wrapped around hers, Harry felt her lips move against his throat, causing his heart to momentarily seize:

"Thank you, thank you for talking to me. Now, go get some sleep."

"Yes ma'am," Harry saluted once he regained his bearings. Hermione gave him one last, sweet smile before stepping into the fireplace and shouting 'Mayfair' as she dropped a bunch of floo powder. And with the rise of deep green flames, Harry found himself having to admit one thing he could no longer hide from:

While he might have been or might not have been in love with her, there was no question that Harry fancied his best friend, the unavailable and uncommonly pretty Hermione Granger.

"Holy Christ," he muttered, echoing his thoughts from earlier.

* * *

_2:40 AM_

"Daddy," something was saying, shaking his shoulder. Harry's eyes blinked open to take in Teddy staring back at him, "Daddy! Are you awake?" He asked, his little green eyes looking rather frightened.

"I am now, kiddo," Harry answered, an amused rumble in his voice.

"Can I- can I... sleep with you?" He pleaded fearfully, looking to his side.

Harry sat up in bed, picking Teddy up and placing the small boy in his lap. "What's wrong, lad?"

"I had a nightmare," Teddy replied in a small voice, curling close to Harry, causing an appreciative smile to play at the elder man's lips. "I'm scared."

"Of course, kiddo," Harry said tenderly, patting the empty space next to him in the bed. "You can sleep here tonight if you want."

"Thank you," Teddy crawled in close to Harry as he lay back down. Harry turned on his side and wrapped a protective arm around the four year-old. The metamorphmagus sighed contentedly and Harry closed his eyes once he had assured Teddy he was safe with him.

For a few minutes, silence rang throughout 221A Sir Thomas Street, only to be broken by the voice of a child:

"Daddy?"

"Yeah, Teddy-boy?"

"How come you and mummy don't sleep together?" If Teddy's question had not been so innocent, Harry was sure he would have choked on his own spit. "The other kids at Daycare say their mummies and daddies sleep together."

"Well," Harry began thoughtfully, staring at his godson, who looked back at him intently through the darkness, eyes the color of Lily's. "your mummy and I aren't married. So we don't sleep together."

"Do you have to be married to sleep with each other?"

"Well... erm..." _Out of the mouth of babes, indeed,_ Harry thought. How was he supposed to answer_ that one_? "Erm... sort of. The rules are... hard to get. For adults, yeah, we have to be married to sleep together."

Teddy yawned sleepily. "Will you and mummy ever get married?"

Harry thought about that for a moment. He saw an older Teddy sitting with his Hogwarts books, reading in the shade of the tree behind Harry's house, flanked by a messy-haired boy and a bushy-haired little girl far too absorbed in her books while Harry and Hermione watched from the kitchen windows. He had to admit. the thought was not unpleasant.

But that was just a pipedream. And this was reality. But he saw no need to break Teddy's naïve view of what parenthood should be like just yet.

"Maybe someday, kiddo," Harry said, pulling the boy in close, "maybe someday."

That seemed to be all the conversation Teddy needed as he turned on his side to face his godfather and snuggled in close. Harry watched over the child for a few minutes longer, watching his breathing even out, and could not help but grin. So this was what being a father was like. It is not unpleasant. Still smiling, Harry closed his eyes.

And soon, his breathing evened out, too.

* * *

**A/N:** So, FFnet has gotten some weird unresolved formatting issues with its horizontal lines, so I apologize if this comes out a bit patchy. But, onward with the fic. Harry is getting some help from Teddy and Hermione in how to be a somewhat normal, functioning human being. And yes, Harry and Hermione's relationship will only escalate from here. Though, since this is really not a romance, it will take a back seat to developing the characters aside from just Harry and Hermione and the overall plot itself. Hope you enjoyed that tiniest bit of HHr fluff and the stuff with Teddy.

Chapter Notes:

After **REV042175's** comment on how Harry's training had parallels to Bruce Wayne's in the Nolan Batman trilogy, I couldn't help but throw in a few references. Since some of them could technically be considered spoilers to The Dark Knight Rises, I'll leave you to find them out yourselves.

"Hell is other People" - Comes from a J.P. Sartré's _No Exit_.

In regard to a guest review about Daphne: It is entirely possible for a man and a woman to be good friends without trying to hump each other at every turn. JKR did a very close platonic relationship between Harry and Hermione in canon. One could argue that Harry's relationship with Hermione is stronger than his with Ginny and hers with Ron despite that they aren't 'in love'. In a similar fashion, Harry and Daphne will eventually have an easygoing relationship that some other characters could misconstrue as romantic, but really is very platonic.

More on Daphne. In chapter eight, Harry tells Oracle that 'most of the magical world does believe in a god', Daphne seems to deliberately contradict this. Rest assured, it's not an oversight: While most wizards do believe in a god or a universal force, as Harry says, they find it hard to believe in religion, as Daphne states.

Monard will continue to be a thorn in the Detail's side.

In one sentence, Hermione sort of admits the problem in the relationship between Ron and herself: he's safe. Make of that what you will.

The TV Show that involved driving Ferraris and living in Florida is _Miami Vice_.

Next chapter: Delirium Tremens. The title is taken from when a person experiences extreme alcohol withdrawal, usually developing symptoms of shakes, seizures, irritability, pain... etc. It's also a damn good Belgian Ale. Please drink responsibly.

Thanks again for reading, and here's to another one coming out soon!  
Geist.

Also. Reviews.

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V


	11. Delirium Tremens Pt 1: Armistice

Disclaimer: All things Harry Potter belong to JKR. This chapter has heavy reference to drug use, fair warning.

Summary: Part One of Two. Harry starts Agilian detox; Daphne, hearing about Mr. Lovegood, turns Harry to a cultist expert whom might be able to help, Ron is impressed; Ron and Hermione row, Harry knocks some sense into her; Dennis gets himself a very important job; Helene gets a lead; Teddy gets to sit around and be cute.

* * *

The King of Limbs

Part 2

"...crawl before you can run."  
- Daphne Greengrass

IX: Delirium Tremens  
Section One: Armistice

* * *

_October 13, 2002 7:07 AM  
Harry Potter's Residence, Liverpool, UK_

Silence was golden, and it was king in 221A Sir Thomas Street for the few short hours little Teddy clutched tightly to his surrogate father. Strangely, it was the best night of sleep Harry had gotten, and he was content to lay with his godson, in that limbo between sleep and wakefulness. If he was right, Teddy would be asleep for another hour, and Harry had to be at work at half-past-nine. He would have to rush when they awoke.

A noise from below finally roused the DCI, and a soft call of "Harry?" caused the raven-haired man to lay his head back on his pillow as Teddy pulled closer. The soft _whisk whisk_ of Healer's Robes sliding against the stairs was calming to Harry's ears. Footsteps reached the doorjamb of the master bedroom:

"Har-" Hermione's call died away on her lips at the sight of her godson curled up against his godfather.

"Shh," Harry shushed her kindly, "he's actually quite manageable when he's asleep."

An exultant smile bloomed on the honey-brunette's face. Harry was quite glad to see it. She padded over to the bed and sat at the edge, reaching over and brushing some of Teddy's long, messy, black hair out of his eyes. The little one stirred from his sleep long enough to blink owlishly at both adults. Harry grinned and ruffled his godson's hair whilst Hermione leaned over and planted a soft kiss to the boy's forehead.

"Mummy?" He asked blearily; Hermione nodded happily. Sleep seemed to wear off the eyes of the young boy, who bolted upright in bed, bouncing joyfully on the mattress. "Wait," he said, scrunching his little forehead in concentration:

Harry suddenly felt concerned for the little boy, and intended to ask him what the matter was, but Hermione beat him to the punch.

"What's wrong, Teddy-bear?" She cooed in a soft voice Harry had only ever heard her use on the tiny Lupin.

Teddy's eyes opened and snapped back to Harry. "You two are sitting in the same bed..." Harry frowned, knowing where this was going, "Does that mean you and mummy are married now?"

Hermione's jaw dropped open in a most uncouth manner, Harry noticed, bemusement evident on her face. Her jaw opened and closed wordlessly for a few moments, and that was all that was needed for Harry to burst out laughing. Noticing his beloved godfather was snickering at his godmother's expense, Teddy also let out a couple of giggles.

"I'll explain in a bit," Harry said in between gasps of air, "You want breakfast kiddo?"

As if on cue, Teddy's stomach rumbled, and the little boy nodded quickly, so fast that it looked that his neck might snap right off its trunk. Harry grinned:

"Sounds like it. Go get brushed up, Teddy-boy, Hermione and I will see you downstairs." Teddy was off like a thunderbolt to brush his teeth and to get ready for the day. Harry was very glad that Hermione had taught Teddy general hygiene. He had heard potty-training and teaching children how to brush themselves was a right pain, but if anyone could do it, it was the daughter of two dentists.

"You know, you'll make a great father someday," Hermione said suddenly.

Not knowing how to respond, he shrugged, and turned back to the honey-brunette: "So, what brings you here so early? Miss me already?"

Hermione snorted. "As if! I was here to ask you if you could watch over Teddy today. Andromeda has an important meeting with Narcissa Malfoy," she dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "I think the two are trying to rebuild their relationship."

"Good on the two," Harry congratulated, "but I've got work today, I don't think I'll be able to watch over him, and I certainly don't want him there today."

"Why not?"

Harry snorted. "Leaving aside that it _is_ an Auror office, because Daphne Greengrass has a mouth that could make a sailor blush."

"Green-?" Hermione started, befuddled, then comprehension dawned on her, "she was in our year? Dark brown hair? Blue eyes? Slytherin, right?"

"That's the one," Harry said, "and she swears more than Seamus, Dean, and I combined."

"Huh," mused Hermione, "she always seemed so composed in classes. And she was just behind me in class rank."

Harry looked at the brunette soberly and shook his head. "Only you would remember class rankings."

To her credit, Hermione had the decency to blush. "Never mind that, then. You're sure you can't watch over him?"

Harry shook his head and contemplated the banister morosely as an idea popped into the forefront of his mind. "I think I've got it."

"Got what?"

"Kreacher!"

There was a pop and the sound of little feet landing on the ground. "Master Harry?" Came a tremulous, but rather excited voice from somewhere beneath him. Harry looked down to the smiling face and tennis-ball eyes of his House Elf, Kreacher. Considering the outright hostility he had treated Ron, Hermione, and Harry himself, the DCI still found it hard to believe that the beaten up House Elf held some sort of affection for his master. But affection he had, and Kreacher was only too willing to serve.

"Hello, Kreacher," Harry greeted smilingly.

"Master Harry has once again called on Kreacher!" The elf exclaimed brightly, bounding towards Harry's feet, where he bowed low in a very respectful, almost loving manner, Regulus' locket hanging low on its chain and scraping the floor. Harry chuckled at the surprised look on Hermione's face. Apparently she had never gotten used to Kreacher's post-war mania. "And Mistress Hermione as well! What has Master Harry called for?"

Just then, Teddy bounded up to Harry, and took a surprised look at Kreacher, whom looked between the little boy, Harry and Hermione:

"Little Theodore Lupin, is it?" Kreacher questioned.

"It's Teddy," the four year-old replied shyly, extending his hand out to shake Kreacher's. The elf looked down at the proffered hand in confusion and turned back to Harry, as if to ask for guidance. Harry nodded quickly, and Kreacher turned back to the little boy, and hesitantly took his hand and shook it.

"Kreacher," Harry said kindly; Kreacher may have been a right arse his fifth year, but one had to learn to let bygones be bygones, and took to treating the elf humanely when he had lived in Grimmauld Place just after the war. "Teddy needs watching over while Hermione and I are at work. Can you do that for me?"

"Yes. If Master Harry wishes it, it shall be done," Kreacher replied, determined, before turning back to Teddy. "What would Master Teddy like for breakfast?" Teddy shouted something that sounded like 'Pancakes' as Harry and Hermione chuckled and a softly smiling Kreacher led the young boy down the stairs to the kitchen.

Harry watched the two descend and turned back to Hermione, whom watched him with an expectant gaze.

"What?" He asked.

"What's all this getting married business, then?" She asked, rather bossily, folding her arms. Harry laughed lightly and explained what had happened early that morning, and by the end of the story, Hermione too was laughing a soft, trilling laugh that lifted Harry's spirits, though he had not known he felt poorly prior.

With Harry's permission, Hermione had Ron floo over, and the trio plus one enjoyed a breakfast for kings, courtesy of Kreacher.

* * *

_9:46 AM  
__NIM - Narcotics Office_

"Ron, you do know you have a day job as well?" Harry chided, throwing a file down in frustration, "bloody reports are more complicated than _C__alculus_."

Ron looked bemused. "What's Calculus?" He asked.

"Never you mind," Harry shushed the man, opening another, likely fruitless, Gringotts' file. "You haven't answered my question."

"You haven't answered mine either."

"Because yours is stupid. Calculus is a muggle thing, now why are you still here?" Harry questioned, "I mean, you're my best mate and all, but seriously, lay off the bro-mance."

"What's a bromance?" Ron asked, looking for all the world like someone who has seen the sky for the first time. Harry glared; the redhead blanched. "Well, Merlin, Harry. You're a little bit tightly wound today. It's my day off and I told Hermione that I had work to spend time with my _other_ favorite person in the whole wide world, so I ask you as to why I can't see what my best mate and ex-partner is up to these days?"

Harry realized he should have been affronted for Ron lying to his girlfriend that way, but it was not as if he could. There were many times Harry had cited Auror business, particularly near the end of their relationship, to escape Ginny and catch a Quidditch game, football on the days when Harry got to choose, with Ron. So, Harry shrugged instead. _People in glass houses should not throw stones and all_, he thought.

"Well, it isn't all that interesting," Harry sighed instead, thumbing through the file.

"That, and I wanted to see what you've found out about that All-Seeing Eye business," Ron continued.

"Ron," Harry observed seriously, "it's been a day. I know that you liked Xeno, but, hell, even I can't work _miracles_. I'll try and get in touch with Helene, see what she might know about magical symbols or cultists, though I doubt she will, Helene's never been one much for secret societies."

"What's this about secret societies, Potter?" Came Daphne Greengrass' voice as she strolled to her work desk across the way from Harry. She disappeared into her cubicle for a moment and soon came back out spinning on a rolling chair. "I'll never get over that!" She exclaimed, grinning like a madwoman.

"You're a child," Harry quipped.

"Fuck off and kill yourself," the brunette retorted as if discussing the weather, "and then kill yourself again."

Ron gaped. His surprise grew when Harry and Daphne glowered at each other for a moment, before cracking the barest of smiles at one another. "Are you two... like-you know-friends?" He asked with a stupefied expression upon his face.

"No," both of them said at the same time. Ron surveyed the two with a raised eyebrow:

"Riiight," he agreed sardonically, tapping his head and nodding understandingly. Daphne, for one, read the expression and appeared most displeased by the redhead's assessment:

"It's called an _armistice_, Weasley," Daphne drawled, "When two people who don't like each other put their differences aside to work on something _bigger _than themselves. How did you befriend this one, Potter? He seems rather stupid."

Harry let out a long-suffering sigh. "Well, if you must know, our long, sordid friendship started on a bright and cool morning. September the first, to be precise. Of nineteen ninety-one. I was a young lad, completely unaware of the customs of the wide wizarding world-"

"Go bugger yourself, Potter." Daphne cut across Harry's story, "so what's this you've been saying about secret societies?"

Ron eyed the pretty brunette warily, and shifted his gaze to Harry, as if to ask permission. Harry, of course, shrugged nonchalantly.

"It's for a homicide case I'm working on at the OIM," he said, as if he were letting out a breath he had not know he had been holding in, "Xenophilius Lovegood."

"Oh, Mister Lovegood!" Daphne exclaimed. "Yes, I remember him. He was the owner of _The Quibbler_, right?" Ron nodded. "'Ria's been talking about that case lately. Says Malfoy doesn't have a clue where to go from here. In fact, she says you've been outsourcing your work to a certain NIM Auror these days." Daphne finished with a pointed glare at Harry.

"...'Ria?" Ron questioned dumbly.

"Astoria Greengrass? My sister? The one who is engaged to Draco Malfoy, your coworker?"

"Ah. Right."

"And you've found evidence of a cult?"

Harry decided to answer this time. "Not a cult, per sé, but some sort of group that we have as of yet been unable to identify."

"And?" Daphne continued.

"Well..." Ron began hesitantly.

"Because I _do_ happen to know quite the expert in all things cult-like," Daphne grinned toothily, "if you're willing to share what it is you're talking about."

Ron, never the one to trust a Slytherin very quickly, eyed her carefully. "And why are you so interested?"

"I dunno, boredom, I guess?" She shrugged, wavy brown hair tossing over her shoulder with it, "That, and Potter here is rather secretive. I'd like to know at least something about the person he is if he's to be my partner. Maybe a show of faith?"

Ron looked dubious.

"You know an expert?" Harry asked, interested.

"Well, she's technically an amateur with a hobby, but she's proven to be more than useful on several cases over the past few years. I can get her in for lunch, if you'd like?"

Harry and Ron looked at each other, the latter with a wary frown, while the former looked contemplative. While his level of nonverbal communication with Ron was nowhere near the understanding Harry had with Hermione, both men were able to relay their affirmation. After all, with a busy schedule, Harry was not going to be working on the case all that often, and Ron had been sitting on the case for nearly a month, now. They needed all the help they could get.

So, with that, both men turned back to Daphne and gave her slight nods.

* * *

_12:34 PM  
Restaurant Terestra, Liverpool, UK_

"Over here!" Daphne had called to a woman with sandy blonde hair and Unspeakable robes on her person. "Trace!"

Ron snorted, half in amusement, half in paranoia. "Figures it'd be another Snake," he said flatly. Harry glared to shut him up.

Tracey Davis and Daphne had always been among the most fanciable girls at Hogwarts, but it was hard to talk to either of them, and Harry remembered more than a few rumors about the two being so unapproachable because they were quite taken with each other. Given what Harry had since learned about Daphne, over the past three days, he found the word hard to believe in. While Tracey he did not know about, Daphne was quite vocal upon what she thought was attractive and unattractive.

Harry had rarely given these two much thought throughout Hogwarts, preferring to stay away from Slytherins, as they mostly seemed to exist for the sole reason of antagonizing him. Ron even less so, having been brought up with the mantra 'Slytherins are Evil' ingrained into his tiny, eleven year-old head. So, to now be sitting across two former Snakes as two former Lions felt distinctly surreal to Harry. But there they were, working together as if they had always been acquaintances.

In five years, Tracey had not changed much, except, perhaps, that she had become even more beautiful. She was still blonde, with luminous, cat-like green eyes, a heart-shaped face, tanned skin, tall for a woman, and exuded an aura of femininity and grace that her gruff best friend decidedly lacked. While Daphne's dark hair and paler skin tone made her look like the daughter of a Russian Czar, Tracey looked to be as close as one could be to a Veela without actually being one. Harry briefly wondered how the woman managed to keep that tan in the dreary weather of London.

"Well, well, Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley," Tracey teased Daphne, "never thought I'd see the day. Well, Potter I can understand, but Weasley always seemed to be following Granger around like a lovesick puppy."

Harry turned to observe his friend, whose ears were rapidly growing red. Tracey seemed to have caught this and flashed an easy smile that could have turned any man to mush:

"Relax, I'm just having you on," she said, likely aware that both Harry and Ron were transfixed on that divine smile of hers, "Tracey Davis." She said, extending a hand. Harry was the first to regain his bearings and tried to remain as composed as possible while shaking her hand.

"Harry Potter," he said.

Ron, still staring, stood up and shook her hand as well. "Ron Weasley," he managed to choke out.

"So," she started, sitting down, "what have you got for me?"

Harry had scribbled down the image and handed it to Tracey, whom looked over it with something akin to interest in her large, sea-green eyes.

"Well this looks to be an All-Seeing Eye. The type one would see on the back of an American One-Dollar Bill. There are a few groups, magical and muggle, that one could attribute this to. Of course, the most common, and most incorrect, assumption is that of the Muggle Illuminati." Harry nodded but both Daphne and Ron, being Purebloods, looked utterly lost. "They were a small sect in Bavaria way back when. Many people believe they're still out there, controlling world policy through back-channels. Personally, I think it's a load of crock.

"But, we are looking for wizards, are we not? So Muggle groups are out of the question." The blonde said with a tired smile on her face. Ron seemed to be utterly besotted with it. Harry had to admit, she did have a fantastic smile. Owner of said smile held out a small book. "The All-Seeing Eye has not been associated with any group of wizards since The Ambassadors back in the nineteenth century."

"The Ambassadors?" Harry surveyed the image of the All-Seeing Eye and a small description upon the page. "Never heard of them."

"Well, you wouldn't. They weren't particularly well-known or that powerful. Normally, I'd charge or something, but since you two seem to be friends with Daph," the blonde turned to Daphne, whom nodded. "I'll see what I can do at no cost to you. Well, there is one cost."

"What's that?" Harry asked.

Tracey smiled sweetly. "Well, I _did_ come all the way from _London_. How's about you buy me lunch for my troubles?"

Harry laughed. "That can be arranged."

* * *

_October 14, 2002 10:40 AM  
__The Circus Motherbase - Medical Sickbay_

"Okay, Harry," Oracle began, ageless face smiling benevolently down upon him, "I need to conduct a thorough test both before and after you've finished detoxifying. So, strip."

Harry nodded, taking off his shirt and trousers.

Oracle appeared amused and pointed at his boxer shorts. "_All_ of it."

Harry couldn't help but feel color rise to his cheeks. Oracle apparently took notice of it and laughed softly, covering her mouth with a dainty hand:

"Come now, lad," she snickered, "it isn't as if you have anything I haven't ever seen before."

Feeling cheeky, Harry smirked. "Well, maybe today you might see something new?" He gently teased.

"Dirty boy," the striking, ageless woman chided softly, wagging her finger disapprovingly, though the smile did not leave her face. "Now. Underpants too." With only slight hesitation, Harry took off his boxer shorts and watched as Oracle gave him an impassive once-over, scribbling something down onto a clipboard.

"You use pens?" Harry questioned, looking at her writing utensil. Oracle looked up and nodded, bemused:

"Fountain. Quills are fun and fancy and all, but they really are impractical when you think about it," she explained and returned to writing. "Good shape, how often do you work out, Mister Potter?"

"Well, prior to actual training, not much," Harry replied, thoughtful, "I haven't done much serious training since Auror School, our cases keep us up at all hours of the night. Not much time to keep up an exercise regimen."

Oracle nodded, writing something down. "All the scars, how did you get them?"

"Most of them were during the war," Harry answered, "a friend healed them for me. A couple were from more dangerous Auror missions."

"Mmhmm," Oracle nodded once again. She wrote something else down, before laying the clipboard down and moving to Harry, waving her wand as small, concentric circles, on which was a script Harry could not read. He knew she was taking magical diagnostics, as Hermione had done when he had been in St. Mungo's. She pursed her lips when done, and headed to where there were two clear, plastic cups on a small side-table. She picked them up and waved them at Harry.

Holding up the first one, Oracle smirked: "Urinalysis."

Harry raised an eyebrow, it wasn't common to analyze one's urine in the wizarding world, though it wasn't completely unheard of.

She held the second up. "We want to be thorough."

"What?" Harry asked, slightly confused.

"We'll be checking up on your future children," Oracle remarked, acting mysterious. Harry squinted, and them realized the implications of Oracle's statement:

"Oh," was all he could say.

"You'd be rather surprised what it can tell you."

"Okay..."

"You look rather at loathe to be doing this," Oracle observed, "most of our recruits find this to be the most... ahem... _stimulating_ part of a full check-up. Perhaps you will need help? I would be more than willing to provide assistance."

Harry was quite sure that he did not need help, but it did not stop the blush from rising to his cheeks. There was the initial problem that Oracle might have been nearly thrice his age. And whether or not she was still quite pretty for a would-be geriatric, but he certainly did not need her help to provide sperm!

"Um, no," he practically squeaked.

"Do you require videos?" Oracle continued the embarrassing line of questions.

"I'll manage without," he dismissed the elder woman quickly, looking at the cups, and then back down at himself. Grabbing the first cup for the urinalysis, Harry sighed: "What the hell did I sign up for?"

* * *

_11:10 AM_  
_The Circus Motherbase - Sickbay_

"Now, Agilian is particularly dangerous because of how painful detoxifying can be, Sorrow," Oracle explained to a now-clothed Harry. "Normal detoxifying period is about a one-week to a fortnight. You'd best call on someone to watch over you in that time, because you may alternate from being a practical invalid to rampaging about for another fix. You'll have to have someone you can really count on."

And the answer to that question was rather simple. Harry could count on Hermione, and Kreacher when she was not around.

"Of course, you may have to ask for time away from work, a leave of absence, or call in a few sick days. You have more than enough from your time at the NIM do you not?"

Harry nodded.

"Good. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have quite a few things to analyze, Sorrow," she indicated a few vials of blood, one of yellowish liquid, and one of viscous clearish-white substance in it. Harry simply shook his head. "You are dismissed," Oracle finished.

Harry headed down the hallway to the larger training building, around the pitch to where all the portkeys were stationed.

"Sorrow," he mentioned to a grim-looking guard, whom handed him a small spinning top. He activated the portkey and felt the familiar tug at his navel pulling him skyward, and then, he was gone.

* * *

_12:30 PM_  
_Harry Potter's Residence, Liverpool, UK_

The line rang. _Brring_, _brring_, _brring_! _Come on, Hermione,_ Harry thought,_ pick up!_ And the tone continued for five more rings. He was already starting to feel a bit oddly, but Harry knew this was just beginning. Finally, he heard the receiver click and the softest voice Harry had ever imagined answer:

"Harry?" She asked.

"Wotcher, Hermione," he greeted, "Look, I really need your help with something."

"And what's that?" She questioned, sounding harried, so Harry decided to make his request quick:

"I've decided to quit Agilian. Full stop," Harry announced.

Silence reigned for a few moments, and Harry thought the call might have been dropped, then: "Why?"

"To make things right," Harry lied, though what he was saying had truth sprinkled into it. "When I was sleeping with Teddy yesterday, I felt for a moment what it was like to be a father. And I want to be there for him, you know? He's going to be such a huge part of my life, and I'm letting it pass me by. I need to stop. And I need to stop quickly."

Hermione gasped. "Are you sure that's wise, Harry? Perhaps if you try it more slowly? Take smaller doses with each passing time?"

Harry shook his head, though he knew Hermione would not be able to see him. "No, you know Agilian doesn't work that way. The only way to stop addiction is to stop it completely. And since Agilian withdrawal is considered to be the worst experiences when it comes to drugs, not many people quit. I want to. I can live with pain."

Hermione took a shuddering breath. "So, what do you need me to do?"

"Come and check in on me every so often to make sure I haven't gone out, overdosed, and killed myself," Harry said with an ironical smile. Hermione laughed as well, though hers sounded... _forced_? Harry found himself wondering why and almost missed her next sentence:

"I'll come and check in every night, then," Hermione replied, "have you been able to get sufficient time off from work, then?"

Harry could not help but grin at how clinical she sounded. He inexplicably liked it. "I'm about to do that now. I'll try to get a week off, maybe more if I can call in a few sick days."

"Okay," said Hermione, "I'll see you this evening then. Should I bring Teddy?"

"Not for a while," Harry answered, "he probably won't want to see me like this. But afterward, I'll try to see him as often as possible."

"Yes, you're probably right," the brunette agreed. "Does six sound good?"

"Sounds gorgeous," Harry replied.

"Okay then, goodbye, Harry," Hermione said, before continuing. "And Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you for doing this. I can't imagine how much it will hurt."

"Hey, it's all for Teddy, right?"

"Yeah," Hermione said, he could _feel_ her smile through the receiver. It struck him then, just how _wrong_ what he said was. Here he was convincing Hermione that he wanted to change for their godson, all the while hiding the real reason for quitting: being able to fight and maim once more. The gratefulness and relief that was inextricably twined into her voice made Harry feel wretched.

"I'll see you in a few hours, Harry," Hermione said softly.

"I'll be waiting," Harry replied, in just as soft, reverent a tone.

The receiver clicked off. Not willing to think about his lie to Hermione, Harry dialed another number to tell his next lie:

"Rodgers?" Harry asked.

"Yes, Harry, what can I do for you?"

"I'm... going to need a week off," he said, cringing slightly, hoping Rodgers would not ask too many questions. "Starting on Friday."

There was silence, then: "Why?"

Well, this was _not _going to be easy.

* * *

_6:07 PM_

Hermione flooed in later that evening, landing mere centimeters away from Harry gracefully. Harry looked up, surprised, having been in the middle of watching a muggle film about a group of Heroin-addicted Scots in Edinburgh. He quickly flipped channels, knowing Hermione would disapprove of a detoxifying Agilian Addict watching such a movie, and then regarded the Healer. She looked tired, as if she came from a very trying day at St. Mungo's. Despite that she looked that way, Harry thought she still looked _striking_. Even though the brunette was frowning, and her hair had fallen into her face, he could not help but think she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen when she blew a strand of honey-hair out of her eyes, stomped to the armchair he sat in, and sagged onto one of the arms, leaning into Harry for support as she kicked off her trainers and socks, wriggling her pretty little toes.

"Long day?" Harry questioned, amused.

Hermione grunted. "The longest. Budge over, will you?"

Harry complied, though he cast the brunette a dubious glance, indicating that they were sitting in an armchair, which generally only had room for one. Hermione, as if she had read the DCI's mind, rolled her eyes and cast him an exasperated look:

"So?" She asked.

Harry sighed and raised his arms up in defeat, scooting over as Hermione slid in. The two ended up in a sort of awkward half-embrace with the sides of their heads resting against each other as they watched some old television show, some comedy he had first seen a few weeks earlier. Soft chuckles from both adults accompanied the roaring laughter of the television audience as the characters launched to a rather pointless conversation regarding minutiae and loads of double entendres.

"Do you want anything to eat?" Harry asked, getting up, Hermione held his arm.

"No, nothing to eat, just stay here for a while," she murmured sleepily. "You're comfy."

Harry's brain simply slipped into numb mush as he sat back down, resting against his best friend. Of course, had Ron decided to floo over, he'd never hear the end of it, but, thankfully, OIM hours were even more egregious than the NIM workday, so Harry had nothing to worry about other than that slight uncoiling feeling in his stomach, which he knew would grow stronger over the next week to fortnight until all traces of Agilian were gone from his system. For the next three days, Harry knew he would be alright, but Agilian dependence would kick him hard once the weekend rolled around.

The continued to watch the television show for half an hour when he felt Hermione's head slid from it's perch atop Harry's head and fell onto his chest. Mumbling and half-asleep, the honey-brunette drew up her legs and was catatonic within a few minutes. Harry watched her sleep, leaning a bit over himself to see her face: the frown line disappeared and her pursed lips loosened from a thin line to their natural, plump roundedness. She looked to be ten years younger while asleep, and Harry's mind's eye was struck with the image of a little girl waltzing into Ron and his' train compartment and fixing his glasses all those years ago.

He was awestruck by just how pretty Hermione really was, though he knew most people would not see eye-to-eye with him on that. Hermione was attractive, having gotten the attention of both Viktor Krum and Cormac McLaggen during her Hogwarts days, though in comparison to people like Ginny or Hannah Abbott, Neville's betrothed, many would consider her nice, pretty, but not really much more. But not to Harry. It was something in her eyes, how they could convey fear and exhilaration like no one else quite could. The way she nibbled on her lower lip when in deep thought. That bossy but strangely endearing tone of voice she used when either Harry or Ron were shirking their work. Her foibles, it seemed, made her even prettier. She seemed... a lot less _plastic_ than most strut-and-huff beauties. And without knowing why he did it, Harry leaned down and kissed her forehead. She made a mewling noise, and wriggled her toes once more, before settling down to soft, short breaths that indicated sleep had fallen over her.

Of course, Harry felt like a pretender, an interloper, someone who was stealing a woman away from her rightful man. Though, Harry thought with some amusement, Hermione would not be happy to hear Harry describe his feelings in such a sexist manner. But, Harry tried very hard to ignore that the woman sleeping on his chest was Ron's girlfriend, and instead, allowed him to wonder if this might have been the way things would be had Harry taken an interest in the bushy-haired girl before Ron did.

But that was all pointless conjecture, so Harry slid off his glasses, now rendered useless, due to Oracle having fixed his eyesight, and drifted off to dreamland as well.

He woke up four hours later, the soft turquoise glow of the television cascading on both himself and Hermione. She breathed evenly, making very little noise as she slumbered. Ginny, like her brother, snored, though Harry had found her snores rather cute because it was soft, unlike the great, big, irritating ones that emanated from somewhere in those vast caverns Ron called his nasal canal.

Ill-at-ease to disturb her peaceful slumber, Harry sat for a few minutes, unsure of what to do and instead marveled at how Hermione's breaths matched the pace and timing of the rise and fall of his own chest. Harry had a feeling, however, that if she awoke, he would have looked rather odd staring at her as he was, so he gently shook her awake. When he did so, she blinked her eyes open blearily and turned:

"Harry?" She questioned, bringing a hand to her mouth as she yawned.

"Looks that way," Harry smiled; she sighed and stared up at him, head still resting upon his chest.

"I'm sorry," she said.

Harry waved her apologies away magnanimously. "Don't be. I daresay I haven't slept quite like this in some time."

"Yes, it's just been a terribly long day," Hermione started, lifting her head off Harry's chest. He felt slightly disappointed. "I would not want to bore you with my troubles, however, considering what you're about to go through."

"Thanks for reminding me, Hermione," he chided softly, playfully; Hermione did her best to look chastened, but seemed only to be able to pull off smug.

"I'm sorry," she did not sound it.

"And, besides, I've got nothing better to do. Usually when it comes to times like this, I'll call up Seamus and we'll go out and get pissed. Well... I'll just drink, but Seamus is a walking DWI Arrest. It's good fortune the tosser can't drive for his life. But that's neither here nor there, you can tell me whatever it is that's bothering you."

"Well... it's Ron," she said, after some thought.

_Of course_ it would be about _Ron_. As much as he loved the bloke, like a brother, really, Harry was really starting to despise him right about now. Like, _really_ despise. Sort of like a brother he wanted to punch.

"Right," Harry said, allowing Hermione to peel herself away from him. "I take it he did not take the news all that well."

"Well," Hermione replied thoughtfully, "it could have been worse. He did not yell."

"Ron? Not yell? When did this occur?" Harry asked, surprised. Hermione ignored the playful barb and continued:

"He just told me he was disappointed in me. _Disappointed_. Like I was a child that stole biscuits before suppertime!" She exclaimed, indignant.

Despite the ill-feelings Harry was projecting at his best mate at the moment, he seriously doubted that Ron viewed Hermione as a child, or in any way that she might have misconstrued. "You know he just doesn't want you to get hurt."

"I need a drink," Hermione suddenly said, brushing past Harry and stomping toward his kitchen. Rather than make a sarcastic jibe about how she was overstepping her bounds as guest, Harry followed her to the wine pantry, pulled out an unopened bottle as she collected two glasses and poured the wine into both. Taking her first sip, Hermione paused contemplatively, and then continued:

"I know he doesn't want me to get hurt, and I know he worries for me. It's not that I don't want him to care, or worry, but I want him to see that I can make decisions for myself, and do things the way I want to. Like you. How come you can do that and he can't?" This was the second time that week Hermione had compared Ron to Harry, and her boyfriend fell short. While a savage part of Harry's psyche took great pleasure in knowing that, the other, selfless part sought to rationalize his behavior in comparison to his best mate's:

"Because," Harry stated soberly, "this doesn't usually happen between us."

"What doesn't?"

"Watching television and sleeping together in the same chair," Harry replied, noting the faint blush that had appeared on his friend's cheeks, perhaps now realizing what they had done could be construed as rather inappropriate. "At the end of the day, I go come here and you go there. If you and Ron moved in together or got married, and you became an Auror and something happened to you-"

"I died-" Hermione corrected savagely, making sure she knew the inherent dangers of the job.

"Yes, if you died. I'd be heartbroken, and so would Ron. But the difference is, I get to go home and forget about what happened to you. I get to go find a woman I can share the rest of my life with. It ends there. I get to move on. Because I haven't experienced anything more with you than hugs and good companionship. Ron would have to get used to sleeping in an empty bed-"

Hermione looked stricken, as if she had never considered how her death might affect Ron.

"-sit in a house that reminded him of you, walk by your books and clothes and quills every day, and continually remember how much he loved and how badly he failed you."

"I... I never-" Hermione trailed off, looking uncertain

Harry smiled kindly at the poor girl. "Now what I'm going to say next will sound insensitive, but it must be said. During the war, you did not lose much. You did not suffer."

"W-what!?" Hermione shrieked, standing up in anger. She pulled back the left sleeve of her robes and revealed the jagged scar that read 'MUDBLOOD' on her arm. "I didn't suffer?" She asked dangerously, "_I didn't suffer_!?"

Harry caught her arm and pulled her close, being as blunt as possible. "No. You didn't. Physical pain is nothing. You felt pain, you felt anger, but you did not feel despair. There is nothing that tortures a person more than to know that they have _utterly_ failed someone."

Hermione tried to pull her arm away, but Harry held her close, bringing her into a quiet embrace. She stopped struggling.

"For me," he whispered into her ear, and she shuddered, "it was when Sirius died."

Hermione wrenched herself away from Harry's grasp and looked into his eyes.

"He was smiling, _absolutely_ exultant while taunting Bellatrix, and there was _absolutely_ nothing I could do. You had been attacked by Dolohov, Ron was taken out by the brains, Neville had the broken nose, and Sirius fell through the Veil. There's this moment when it becomes sickeningly clear to you that you have nothing left to live for. When the person you love most is gone forever. And there's _nothing_ you can do about it."

Hermione regarded him quietly, attentively, previous anger forgotten.

"I went after him, only to be held back from jumping into the veil myself," Harry said. "It's that very moment, you yourself want to die as well. That your life will never be the same, that you'll only live half a life, that you'd be better off dead. No hope left, just _despair_.

"That moment _changes_ you. George has never been the same since Fred died, and Ron... well, I think he literally felt it at Malfoy Manor when you were being tortured. I did too. You did not experience that, and that's why you can't imagine why Ron wouldn't want you to do this."

Harry looked down at the scar, "I'm sorry I had to say that," he apologized, running a few fingers along the never-fully healed gashes. Hermione gasped at the touch, and Harry drew back.

"You're wrong," Hermione said.

"What?"

"I did feel it. Once."

Oh. Harry dearly hoped she was not going to speak of Ron leaving the tent that night nearly five years earlier. That was not even close to the same thing.

"It was when Hagrid was forced to carry your body from the Forbidden Forest. I just... I just wanted to..." she stopped, as if she had come to a sudden truth that had clouded her eyes prior had suddenly been lifted and she simply stared, dumbfounded. "I wanted to die with you..."

Harry stood dumbstruck, trying to find the right words. "Maybe you understand to a degree then. But, I'm still here, aren't I? There was no need to get used to the thought that I'd never come back, that I was gone forever. You didn't have to get over that yourself, I did it for you."

He grinned as Hermione bit her lip contemplatively:

"Maybe," she said, eyeing Harry as he had never seen her do before. Suddenly, she seemed nervous as she turned toward the sink.

"Damn wine," he heard her mutter.

"What's wrong with the wine?"

"Huh?" She asked absentmindedly, "Oh! No, nothing, I think I'm feeling a little tipsy is all!" The brunette tittered nervously, her face glowing pink. "I... I think I should be heading home, now-" she made a show of yawning, "-tired!". Harry raised an eyebrow:

"Okay," he said, wondering why Hermione suddenly seemed so preoccupied. He did not think telling Hermione what he did would get her so contemplative. Hermione started walking away and stumbled over one of Harry's rugs. "Do you need any help?" He reached out to hold her arm, but Hermione quickly hopped out of his grasp, leaving Harry confused as she marched to the fireplace, obviously flustered about something: "What's wrong?" He tried one last time.

"Nothing!" Hermione exclaimed, too brightly, too quickly, as she gathered a handful and tossed it into the fireplace, "Mayfair!" Her voice cracked and then she was gone, leaving Harry alone in his drawing room, confused as to what had just happened.

* * *

_October 15, 2002, 9:45 AM  
NIM - Narcotics Office_

Harry strolled into the NIM at 9:45 the next morning, right on time. He had tried to push the questions of what had happened with Hermione the night before out of his mind, but it did not seem that he would be receiving such reprieve. Thankfully, work always seemed to take Harry's thoughts off his sordid (and rather pitiful as of late) relationships with the much-touted 'Golden Trio', as the Press had taken to calling Ron, Hermione, and himself after the War. He found out from Daphne that since Rodgers had approved Zabini's idea of using a mole, Dean, as Team Leader would be asking one of the group to do it. Since Harry was the one whom had done the most infiltration work after the war, Daphne wagered he would be getting the call.

"I don't think so," Harry replied, "back when I had been working in the Soldier Unit, all infiltration missions were solo efforts with little interaction with enemies, aside from stunning them or killing them in rare cases. Besides, I was with that group for little over two months before they transferred me to SCU once the last of the Death Eaters bit the dust. Trust me, I'm not nearly suave enough to be a spy. I'm no James Bond."

Despite that Daphne was a pureblood, she had told Harry more about Tracey after their little lunch date with her and Ron. The tall blonde was a halfblood whom was quite ingrained into the muggle world, so she knew some things of muggle cinema and literature. So it came as no surprise to Harry when she smiled and returned:

"Well, we're not asking you to go to a Ministry Gala and pretend to be Mister Social, we're asking you to spend some time with psychopaths that are nearly as socially awkward as you."

"Well, that is a bit easier..." Harry started, before swiveling around in his chair, a protesting look on his face. "Hey! I'm not-"

"Potter, you're a social retard," Daphne cut across whatever Harry was about to say.

"And you're not?" Questioned Harry, acknowledging the hypocrisy of the brunette telling him that he was socially retarded when she spoke like that.

To her credit, Daphne scowled a bit at Harry's gibe, but picked herself up steadily. "We're not talking about me you fucking pillock," to the untrained, Daphne's words would make her out to be horribly offended; but Harry knew better, the Pureblood was just having a bit of fun. "But we'll talk about you some other time as well, looks like Captain Agilian himself has come to his decision."

Harry looked up to where the Anti-Terrorist Agent pointed and saw Dean strolling down a row of cubicles with a determined look upon his face. He looked back to Daphne, whom shrugged, stood up, and headed toward the large wooden table the group had been working at the past two weeks.

Dean arrived just as Zabini, Seamus, DS Freeman, and Dennis slid into their seats and launched into a speech without preamble. "As you all know already, Anne okayed our request to plant an agent within the Shankly Crew. Normally, our first candidate would be DCI Potter, on loan from the SCU in London, but I've recently learned that most of Harry's missions required very little human interaction nor did they have—ahem—diplomacy in mind when you were sent in, am I correct?"

Harry nodded.

"Thus, I've decided on perhaps the best character-actor I've ever seen to work in Potter's stead."

Harry immediately knew who it was, turning to Daphne, whom arched an eyebrow in confusion. Harry knew Daphne was a convincing grifter, he had learned, but her natural beauty also made her a target. Instead, it was—

"Dennis!"

—who everyone knew was perhaps one of the greatest amateur actors they'd ever seen, able to play many different characters with authenticity just to pass the time while they were shacked up with him in Room 311 of the Irola Towers.. Just as Colin had taken to photography as a child, Dennis had taken to film. The two often entertained the idea (before they found out about the magical world, of course) of working on a movie that Colin directed and Dennis starred in.

But, that time had long passed, and now all heads swiveled in the direction of the blond-haired man, who looked simultaneously white as a sheet and a pallid, ashen color, as if he had eaten something quite rank.

Amazingly, however, the MLE Officer simply looked Dean in the eye and nodded as if nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred. Harry caught Seamus' eye, and the Irishman shrugged. Daphne merely nodded, waiting for Dean to continue.

"However, Harry, since you've got some experience with this, I want to request your help with getting Dennis ready for blending in with these guys. You'll be acting the part of a fiend during work hours to keep an eye on Dennis. Daphne will be helping you out with him. And, yes, Rodgers has already told me about your week off, so I'll be playing the part whilst you're gone."

Harry nodded, looking a lot more composed than he felt. Thankfully he only had to work as a fiend for the rest of the week. If he had waited two weeks without vacation, Harry knew he wouldn't be able to control himself and end up relapsing into Agilian Addiction.

"Does that sound alright, Potter?" Dean asked.

"Gorgeous," replied Harry as Dean grinned and went about his business.

* * *

_12:12 PM  
Irola Towers – Apartment 311_

"Merlin, Creevey, would you fucking_ relax_!?" Daphne nearly shouted at the fidgeting blond. "You're going to do fine, and if you die, I'll kick Potter in the arse for you, so stop acting like a moron!"

"I'm not acting like a moron," Dennis sneered, pacing back and forth around the small, dirty tenement, "I'm just a little bit worried that I could end up with a _bullet_ in my head! Surely you'd be just a teensy bit concerned with that happening to you if you were in the same situation?"

"No, I wouldn't be worried. Because I'm not a pansy. In any case, I'm not the one in this situation. You are. So, pardon the mugglism, man the fuck up and stop pacing about, you're giving me vertigo," Daphne barked.

"Bubbles? What the bloody hell kind of name is Bubbles!?" Dennis nearly screamed. "Does Dean _want_ me to get raped and killed?" Dean had given Dennis the street name Bubbles Dunlop, though Harry had no idea why. Dean thought it was funny, and said he heard it on a television show.

"You know," Daphne remarked, amused, "only one of them is a pouf. And he'd rather kill you than kiss you, if you catch my drift. They're not gonna gang-bang you."

"How do you know?"

"_Merlin_, you bloody pussy," Daphne groaned, palming her face in frustration.

Harry watched the scene unfold from a rickety chair in the corner of the room with a mixture of amusement and embarrassment. He was certainly glad that no one was around to see what had amounted to be about twenty minutes of a tedious back and forth between the muggleborn and pureblood, a fight which vaguely reminded Harry of some of the towering, stupid arguments that two certain best friends of his would constantly get into. Though it was clear that, unlike Hermione, Daphne was about as attracted to the young MLE Officer as Harry was to Eloise Midgen and her pimples.

Then, as Dennis was about to spit back a retort Harry knew would lead another half-hour of arguing, the DCI cut across.

"Dennis, shut up. Greengrass, play nicely," Harry said in a clipped tone, silencing Dennis and eliciting a wry smile from the regal brunette.

"Remember," said Daphne, "it's easy to get in there, the hardest thing is to _stay in character_. You'll get nervous, but you can't break away from whom you're supposed to be. If you were to be a fat-cat, you'd sit around sipping a dry martini, but remember, you're with some of the down and dirtiest in human-bloody-society.

"That means you have to act accordingly. None of that photography you've got the hard-on for, no art, or movies. You talk about things they want you to talk about: Drinks, firewhiskey, by the way; weapons, shagging, that whole sad spiel."

"Wow, I feel enriched already," Dennis drawled.

Harry snorted, indicating the tattered robes he wore. "At least you don't have to pretend to be an addict."

For the next few hours, Harry and Daphne took turns teaching Dennis a different aspect of how to be a convincing dealer. Harry's advice mostly dealt with the cloak-and-dagger part of the operation, sneaking and killing, whilst Daphne simply told Harry he was a neanderthal and proceeded with her lesson in becoming a social chameleon.

"I prefer to think of it as being more pragmatic. No sense in wasting time or your life when you could just dodge everyone and get whatever it is you want."

"Or, you can charm it out of them," Daphne disagreed.

Harry shook his head. "These are some pretty randy blokes, yes, but I can't possibly imagine any of them being quite taken with Dennis."

"Well, perhaps the Turk," the beautiful brunette shrugged.

"Yes, perhaps the Turk," Harry grinned.

"Just think of it this way, Creevey," Daphne flipped an overturned chair and sat on it so that her torso was facing the backrest, "faking is just like anything else in life. You get better as you do it more. You have to crawl before you can run. That's all it takes."

"Crawl before I run?" Dennis repeated.

"Baby steps," Harry clarified good-naturedly. The Auror duo smirked at one another as Dennis merely shook his head and began his descent down into the courtyard.

* * *

4:15 PM  
Irola Towers – Courtyard

"You sir, you there, would you like a new robe? Taken straight from the best dealers in Diagon Alley! Get them right here!" Harry ran up to Hawk, one of the dealers and lay a white fur coat upon the man, who immediately pushed the glamoured DCI away, telling him to 'piss off'.

Harry promptly did so, but he had gotten what he had wanted. Dean, Daphne, and Seamus were in Room 311 taking pictures of every person Harry put that specific white fur coat on. It signified any dealer, while the black leather jacket was intended for anyone who was a higher-up.

"How about a trade, sir," Harry asked the newly-freed Ahmet Özek, "this coat for two vials of Agilian, sirrah?"

The irate Turk, who had been talking to a young black man, spun and pushed Harry out of the way. "You pay, like everyone else," the man said, eyes flashing like steel, "or you die, like everyone else who refuses to pay."

"No coat then?"

The Turk looked quite irate now. "Get out of this courtyard before I end you." When Harry did not move, the man flashed his sidearm viciously. "You deaf? Step off, wanker!"

Harry, in his blond-haired, brown-eyed glamour, audibly gulped. "Y-yes sir."

He rushed back into a crowd of fiends and found Dennis standing across the way, speaking to a teenage boy who seemed to be one of the touts of this particular brand of Agilian. Letting loose a tiny tendril of his magic, Harry tried to legilmence the MLE Officer:

_How is everything on your end?_ He asked. Dennis looked up, alarmed, then relaxed and went back to speaking to the young man:

_Just peachy, _he growled back, _I'm working on it. Boy says I can start on the fringe dealings first thing tomorrow if the Lieutenant okays it_.

_Keep me updated_, Harry replied, and left the courtyard, entering one of the towers and climbing up to Room 311, where a bored Daphne, a yawning Seamus, and a vigilant Dean were waiting for him.

"Couldn't get anything else?" Dean asked, not looking up from out the window.

Harry shrugged, looking at Daphne, whom shook her head and mouthed '_I'll tell you later_'. "It was the best I could do. Anymore and I'd have to stop an all-out gunfight."

A ring coming from Harry's pocket interrupted whatever Dean was about to say.

"Potter," Harry said into the receiver once he answered it.

"Harry," came that familiar female voice, "it's Helene. Do you think you can come by Bristol? I think I might have finally found something on your Persephone-hunt. Warnings, it's _really_ ugly stuff. Also, if that DS is going to ask if it's a relevant visit, tell him I've learned a few things about Damian Shankly and his little posse as well."

"Have you?"

Helene laughed. "Why, Harry! I'd never thought I'd see the day you'd begin to doubt me. I know many things. I also want you to bring that pretty little foul-mouth with you. She might be able to link the Persephone stuff back to her friend with the blond hair. You know, the one that your best mate _totally_ has the hots for?"

"I didn't know Hermione was into girls," Harry joked lightly, but apparently he forgot there was other company in the room. Dean looked up, alarmed this time, images of Ron's girlfriend and other women no doubt flitting through his dirty mind whilst Daphne gave Harry quite the amused look.

"No, you berk," Helene muttered, "Ron! He was absolutely besotted with her."

"_How_ do you know this, again?" Harry groaned. "Are you stalking me again?"

"No," the older woman shouted indignantly, "I just _know_ things. Now get your sorry arse and that fine thing you _should_ be shagging over here before I find and strangle you."

"Kinky," Harry replied.

"Harry!"

"Oh, alright, I'll be there in an hour or two."

"With that comely lass?"

"Now I'm starting to think _you're_ into girls."

"Maybe I am," Helene said innocently, before the receiver clicked dead. Harry's jaw moved soundlessly for all of three seconds until he was able to regain his bearings and told Daphne to come along. She followed, but, being annoying seemed to be her special quality, so she asked questions the whole car ride to the NIM, where they would pick up their wands, side-arms, and floo to the Basilisk Fang.

"We're going to Bristol to talk to a friend of mine about that Lovegood Case. He was mumbling something about 'Persephone' days before he died. My friend's an informant, a bloody useful one, too. She's agreed to help me out on this one and might have found something. Just remember, she can be a bit of a–a–" Harry trailed off.

"Tart? Bitch?" Daphne supplied helpfully.

"Cunt, was the word I was looking for."

"Ouch."

"What can I say, Greengrass? You're rubbing off on me."

"Now that's just inappropriate, Skipper."

"Only because you thought of it that way."

"Shut up."

* * *

_5:06 PM  
Bristol Magical District, UK_

"Nice place they've got here," Daphne snorted. "Looks a lot like the Towers, only it has _whores_." She slipped her hands into her coat pockets and looked warily at the scantily-clad women, flinching when one, a moderately-attractive redhead winked at her suggestively.

"You should feel right at home, then," replied Harry.

"Sod off, you pillock," Daphne's retort lacked its usual crassness, where she often resorted to American swears for reasons beyond Harry.

The DCI waved his hand away from the brunette, indicating she follow him. Falling in step with each other, it seemed Daphne could not help but ask more questions about Harry's past:

"You know, Malfoy always tried to convince us you were a giant twat," she started nonchalantly, Harry raised an amused eyebrow at her choice of words, "you don't seem much it, though."

"You do realized that I, not two minutes ago, insinuated that you were a prostitute?" Harry questioned, eying a vial of Agilian held in a dealer's hand rather longingly. The snake in his stomach uncoiled. It was starting to get ready for its first meal. Tonight would not be an easy night.

Daphne, however, took no note of Harry's discomfort. "Yes, yes, you like to insult me. But I do just the same to you. It's a good working-relationship."

"Is that what they call it these days?"

"Let me speak, you stupid bastard," the brunette snapped without any real hostility, leveling an ice-blue glare at Harry that shut him up, "One day you were the scion of all things Light, a goody two-shoes who, the next day, was manipulative and used his fame to get what he wanted."

"So, Malfoy is an idiot. I established that the first day I met him," Harry shrugged, "that view of him has only marginally lessened over the years."

"I would appreciate it if you didn't speak so lowly of soon-to-be brother-in-law. My sister's quite taken with him, after all." Daphne remarked a little tonelessly.

"Well, the Draco Malfoy I knew was probably the biggest piece of shite I've ever met. But, hey, reckon a man's trash is a woman's treasure."

"Harry Potter," Daphne started, "completely different from who I thought he was."

"Better or worse?"

"Worse," Daphne smirked, "but better as well."

Harry grinned at the brunette, walking by a strange clown juggling knives. He let out a high-pitched laugh as they passed and said something about bats. Daphne sped up with Harry, moving ever faster towards the looming tavern.

"Wonder why there's no one investigating the drug trade down here?" Daphne remarked.

"Bristol's quite lax on its drug laws. This section of the Magical District is an approved market for drug trafficking. Aurors don't normally work in this city, so it's all DMLE guys trying to keep crime down,"Harry replied.

"What does that have to do with Agilian?"

"Allowing for designated trade areas keeps the dealers out of the spotlight so MLE doesn't have to arrest them. That way, they can focus on real crime."

"You can do that?"

Harry shrugged. "Why not? I think it's a pretty good idea, actually. We could be working on that fiasco in the Middle East and threats at home rather than wasting our time in a building taking photos and begging on wire taps."

"But, they still murder," Daphne countered.

Harry shook his head. "An unfortunate side-effect of competition in an illegal trade. We'd still arrest them for offing their rivals, but it really wouldn't be necessary in Bristol. Put them on a designated street corner, and drugs are just like any other commodity. Whoever's got the product, makes the money. Like the Dutch, they have lax drug laws and a fairly low murder rate as well."

"And they'll work here, these Dutch laws?"

"Don't see why not?" Harry replied.

By this time, the two had arrived at the large doors to the Basilisk Fang. One of the men let Harry in and the DCI marched up to Helene's doorminder. Instead of having to say the secret code, this time, the bouncer let Harry and, after some coaxing, Daphne, in.

The second Harry stepped into the familiar entrance room, Helene rushed through the bead curtain at breakneck speed, caught a surprised Harry in her hands, and kissed him on both cheeks:

"Hello, Harry darling," she smiled demurely, winking at Harry and grinning toothily at Daphne, whom eyed Harry with something akin to shock. "I found your Persephone, and she is a _naughty _girl."

Harry nodded and sat on one of Helene's couches, Daphne followed, still staring at Helene like she was a crazy woman.

"Are you going to introduce me to your girlfriend, Harry dear?" Helene changed the subject immediately, smiling kindly at Daphne, whom balked at being called Harry's girlfriend:

"I'm not–"

"–Of course you aren't," interrupted Helene, "we all know Harry has his eyes on the one person he can't have."

Harry had to gawp at that, at which the beautiful, auburn-haired witch let out a nasty smile that was quite unflattering on her. "I told you I have my sources. And I'm better at reading people than you think. When Harry Potter is near a pint, he does not ignore it, not even for the best friends. Unless there is a woman on his arm that he's trying _so very hard _to keep out of the Auror program." Harry caught the implication quite easily, Helene must have had one of her informants or been at the Liverpool bar where the Aurors went for drinks the night Harry brought Hermione there, hoping to convince her to rethink her plans.

If there was anything to ever worry about, it was Helene and her penchant for teasing Harry, and it seemed she had both figured out about his feelings for Hermione and milk it for all it was worth. And Daphne, who would do nothing less than make fun of him until the day he would finally snap and kill her, was no better an option to hear this tidbit of information. So, Harry made a spur of the moment decision to return to the previous conversation.

Daphne suddenly looked interested, but Harry was not to have any of it. "So what's all this then about Persephone?" He questioned as if Helene had said nothing.

"No, wait, I want to hear this," Daphne grinned maliciously. There were many times over the past few days Harry had known Daphne that he wished to kill her.

Now was one of those times.

"Shut up before I hurt you," Harry whispered to the brunette.

Yet, Helene decided to get serious for once in her life, for which Harry would be eternally grateful. He brought a shaking hand up to his face to rub his eyes, the snake in his stomach had stuck first and he was starting to feel cold and clammy. He would need to get out of the area as soon as possible so he did not run the risk of buying more Agilian.

Helene noticed. "You've stopped," she remarked, staring at his hands.

"Yes," Harry mumbled, "I've stopped."

Daphne looked back and forth between the two conversing magicals with an expression of befuddlement on her aristocratic face.

"Because of her?" Helene interrogated.

"Yes, because of her."

To his surprise, Helene smiled. "Hm. Maybe she's a better influence than I thought."

"So," Harry changed the subject, "Persephone?"

Helene's expression instantly turned grave. "Persephone," she began haltingly, "is a call-back to one of the darkest periods of British Magical History. It is a reference to a series of Ministry-approved attempts at Necromancy."

Harry sat in stunned silence for a long moment, staring at a grimacing Helene. His thoughts turned to the aristocratic brunette nect to him. Though Daphne had been one of the last people in on the case, Harry knew she was entrenched in it now. And he knew she was aware of it, as well, feeling her ice-blue eyes on him as she summed up the situation in a way only she could:

"Oh, _fuck_."

* * *

**A/N:** Necromancy, indeed! This is first and foremost an HP fic, so even with how the wizarding world's 'advancement' is put into fine-focus, there will still be a lot of magic going around. Next chapter focuses more on Harry's detoxification, Ron and Hermione's seriously collapsing relationship, and Dennis and his time as Bubbles Dunlop.

Chapter Notes:

When I was writing the scene with Harry and Ron at the restaurant with Daphne and Tracey, a wild thought struck me: While HHR is my OTP, I've always been fine with HG as long as it's presented more realistically than JKR did it. On the other hand, I never did understand Ron/Hermione, as both seem to bring out the worst in each other and don't ever truly inspire one another to change for the better. Ron brings out Hermione's bossiness and mothering attitude, while Hermione brings out Ron's laziness and ire. Unfortunately, they aren't the ones that could make each other better people. Hermione needs someone who would treat her as both a partner and a wife (likely Harry, or if H/G, Neville), and Ron would need someone who could change his outlook on life: on Slytherins, Dark Magic, so on and so forth. As one would expect, the most obvious candidate would be Luna, but as she is married, she's off the market. I thought, ironically, a Slytherin girl would do wonders for Ron. Prove to him that not all Slytherins are dark wizards, so on and so forth. So that got me thinking... you all might have to get ready for a seriously crack pairing.

Bubbles Dunlop is a reference to The Wire. One of the informants is nicknamed Bubbles, and a character from the second season is given the name Fuzzy Dunlop to exploit money given out to said informants. Of course, as this takes place in 2002, the second season of The Wire would be anachronistic, but... you gotta give and take.

This will not be the first time Daphne is confused for Harry's girlfriend.

Helene, obviously, is referring to Hermione when talking about 'her'.

Harry's friendship with Daphne is an inversion of his with Hermione. While he and Hermione build each other up and have serious discussions about friendship and how to move on with life, Harry enjoys an easy-going relationship with Daphne that mostly involves insulting each other.

Persephone - And the plot thickens!

Dennis' acting skills will play a prominent role in Part 4.

See you next chapter, and be sure to review!  
Geist.


	12. Delirium Tremens Pt 2: Atlas Hugged

**Disclaimer: **I am not blonde nor am I woman. I have black hair, a beard, am a man, and haven't lived in England for close to twenty years now, which is saying something, because I'm not even thirty yet. I literally _could not _be any further from being J.K. Rowling than I already am.

Fair Warning: I'm going to dump a veritable crapmine of information on you during the Helene-Harry-Daphne-Persephone meeting, but pay close attention. And Harry has a sexual encounter this chapter, but it's not with Hermione. I hope you'll be patient with me and you'll be able to see why it's necessary.

**Summary**: Helene explains the Coventry Dilemma and makes a visit. Pieces and clues mentioned before start to come together in Helene's narrative. Harry is stubborn. Daphne attends dinner with her family and ruminates upon her home. Draco draws up a psych profile.

* * *

The King of Limbs

Part 2

"You're born into your station. You are what you are."  
- Harry Potter

IX: Delirium Tremens  
Section Two: Atlas Hugged

* * *

___October 15, 2002 5:30 PM  
Basilisk Fang Tavern, Bristol Magical District, UK _

Harry eyed Helene cautiously. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but did you just say _Ministry-sponsored Necromancy_?"

"That's exactly what I said," Helene replied, looking vaguely uncomfortable. "Have you ever heard of the Coventry Dilemma?"

Daphne arched a delicately plucked eyebrow in interest, but Harry was the one to answer. "The Coventry Dilemma. From World War Two? Where the British cracked the German Code and rather than save Coventry and risk the chance of the Nazis creating a new one, they let the city be bombed. For the greater good." Harry had never liked that term 'for the greater good'. Often save-the-world plans would leave humanity in worse shape than it started off in.

Helene smiled wryly. "Very good, Harry. She would be proud of you."

Harry groaned, was Helene ever going to let the Hermione thing go? Probably not.

"But that's not the whole story," the auburn-haired witch continued, crossing her legs, "you see, at about this time, Magical Britain was also having trouble a Hitler of our own."

"Grindelwald," Daphne clarified.

"Astute, Miss Greengrass," Helene complimented, "you see. Before Dumbledore stepped up to fight Grindelwald, when the armies were still fighting among the battles of the Muggle War, the Minister of Magic at the time, Winter Soundcoff, was fighting a losing battle. Dumbledore was a simple Hogwarts Professor, though many knew he was powerful, and Grindelwald's forces decimated wave after wave of United European Forces.

"That raised a question. If all these forces were dying, soon Europe would lack the most important resource of all: Humans. If they were to keep fighting, the entirety of Magical Europe, some twelve million in all, would be decimated. There were no other allies to go to, the American Magical Congress was perhaps even _more_ isolationist than its Muggle Counterpart, and the Secretary of Magic was far more right-winging than the liberal-minded Muggle President of the US. They would not waste the manpower for a European War, and even the Muggles were reticent to enter World War Two. It wouldn't be until the encroaching Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor over a year after the Coventry Blitz. But the Magicals would not be swayed. There was no help to be had from across the pond. The Soviets intended to stay out of a Western European conflict. It was a mutual understanding made between Stalin's Russia, Premier Rozhkov's Magical Russia, and Grindelwald that so long as he kept his war out of the Eastern Bloc, he'd have no trouble from the Soviets.

"Because of the lack of American _and _Russian help and the relatively small numbers, some four-hundred men in all, coming from Canada and India, the Ministry found itself in dire straits. The war was getting worse, and the lack of results were further straining British-German relations, which were already soured by the German National Socialist Party and its own war. Soon, the Germans dropped out of helping altogether, instead focusing on keeping its citizens from falling into the Muggle propaganda. They couldn't keep losing bodies, so, they wanted to make soldiers who could fight Grindelwald.

"So, MI-7, what is now known as the Department of Mysteries, began Project Persephone, the Goddess who was able to travel back and forth between the living and the dead. Apt name, I think. It was supposed to be ironic, Grindelwald wanted an army of people who could feel no pain, and so the British were going to give it to him. But, presumably, the first tests failed, and led to the creation of perhaps the most toxic creation in all of human history."

"Nuclear weapons?" Harry joked.

Helene granted him a withering glare. "Be serious, Harry. They wanted to reanimate dead bodies with their free will, personalities, and genetic makeup. What they instead made, were pallid, subservient creatures whom existed only for their master's whims. What I am speaking of are Inferi."

Daphne went pale. "But I thought it was _Grindelwald_ who wanted to create an army of Inferi!"

Harry grit his teeth, knowing Ministry politics better than most, by now. "Smokescreens, even then? Amazing how politicians never learn."

"Well it wasn't _entirely_ a smokescreen," Helene shrugged, "Grindelwald _was _fascinated with creating an army of Inferi, but only so after the Ministry showcased them. But, back to our story. The inferi retained some shell of their former self, so the Ministry thought they needed to coax the psyche out of its hiding and back into the Inferi. So they created a mental stimulant."

Daphne wore a befuddled look upon her face, likely not well-versed in Psychopharmacology, so Harry clarified. "A drug, in layman's terms."

"But not just any drug," Helene smiled wickedly, "a drug that makes you feel alive and free, because it's unburdening your mind."

Harry remembered hearing Helene say that once before, months earlier. And it suddenly dawned on him:

"_Agilian_?"

"Yes, originally, a government issue stimulant. Believe me, _I know_." Helene said, regarding the incredulous looks on the faces of both Aurors. "But it only worked marginally. The Inferi were too violent, too prone to injuring their handlers, and they became so destructive that the Ministry made the decision to cut the program and destroy the evidence. So, they turned to the Germans for discreet help with eliminating their little problem."

"How did Agilian get released into the public?"

Helene sighed. "No one really knows, but it started showing up after you chucked that disarming charm at Voldemort. It's likely that his forces declassified the contents of Persephone and Agilian was a byproduct. Once the DoM got back on its feet, Persephone disappeared once more."

"And all this was done where?" Daphne asked, curiosity seemingly getting the better of her.

Helene glanced at the brunette, then turned her gaze back to Harry. "This all took place in a small village about forty kilometers from Coventry: Mareville. When the time of the Coventry blitz came, a few German planes, from the Magical Reich of Germany rather than Hitler's Germany, diverted from the rest of _Luftwaffe_ and overshot their intended destination by a factor of forty kilometers, destroying what most people believed to be just a patch of ground than any city. Of course, the city was flattened, and the Inferi were destroyed, but it got on quite well soon after the rebuilding process."

"Mareville..." Harry started, why did that name sound familiar?

"Neither of you were yet a year old when it happened, and I believe I was starting Hogwarts the year it happened, but there was a catastrophic incident that occurred in 1981 at Mareville that killed off the entire populace of 1,500 humans, house-elves, centaurs, and all. No one actually knows what happened, but the Ministry claimed it was a supervirus from a Muggle Military Research facility called The Breakers."

Harry's eyes widened in recognition: Control had mentioned something about Mareville!

"The Breakers?" Harry questioned.

Helene smiled. "Yes. I had a contact of mine, a squib in MI-5 do some looking into this research facility–"

"–Let me guess," Daphne sighed, "it doesn't exist."

Harry snorted; he had been about to ask the same question.

"Even better," Helene quipped, tossing a copy of a file to Harry. "Decommissioned. Since 1965. So there was no supervirus, no danger at all, and yet–" Helene tossed over another file containing pictures of two wizards in Department of Mysteries garb standing outside a large iron-wrought gate with the name 'Mareville' cast in the metal above the duo's heads. "–There are Mysteries' men guarding a now-defunct wizarding town. Something happened in Mareville that the Ministry wanted to cover up. That they still want to cover-up. I don't know, it looks like your friend. Mister Lovegood, got in way too deep."

"Thank you," Harry said, genuinely grateful.

"Hey, hey, it's not without its costs: I think I might have checked in too deeply as well. I'm feeling I might have need to flee the country now that I know this."

Harry was struck dumb at that. "I'm sorry Helene."

It was a shit apology, Harry knew, but he had never been good with these things and hoped Helene would understand.

"No, it's no trouble, Harry," Helene looked at Daphne. "Would you mind waiting outside for a moment, Miss Greengrass?"

"Er... sure," Daphne shrugged, tensing and turning her gaze to Harry. He could tell she was asking a nonverbal question: _Should I have my wand at the ready?_

Harry shook his head ever-so-slightly, and the brunette visibly relaxed. Helene, always a master of reading body signals, smiled wryly. "Oh, Miss Greengrass, you don't have to worry about me killing your boyfriend, I daresay we've been friends longer than you two have. But, don't you think five days is a little quick to build a... relationship where no words are needed? Rather like your relationship with _her_, isn't it, Harry?"

Daphne blushed scarlet and seemed about to bite back a retort when Harry merely rolled his eyes and drawled: "Can we get to the point?"

"Of course, DCI," the metamorphmagus smiled beatifically. "Right this way, sir." she pointed to the bead curtain that Harry had seen her come through so many times before. Daphne stood and made her leave. Harry frowned and followed her behind the curtain into a bedroom. Harry always knew Helene was a bit of a slob, but seeing her sloppiness . Empty boxes of something or another (mostly delivery parcels) littered the room, the bedsheets were terribly mussed, as though someone played something fierce underneath it, clothes were strewn haphazardly across the carpeted floor.

Helene turned around and smiled. "Do you know why I originally started to help you, Harry?"

Harry shrugged. "Not really, no. I thought it was to avoid a stint in Barathrum."

"It's because you reminded me of my husband."

Harry snorted. "The one that ended up a king of limbs in your kitchen?"

"Yes, when he died, he was a bastard," Helene agreed, moving in close. "And all he deserved to be was a _king of limbs_, as you say. But I look at the world now, and see the Americans, and the Russians, and ourselves teetering on the edge, and I can't help but feel that the world is going to hell. Then, I look at the past, and even the dirty parts seem so _bright_. I did love my husband once. His name was John. He was very much like you."

"Like me..." Harry started.

"He was a good man. And I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. But he was unstable, too idealistic."

"Well, then we're not exactly the same," Harry smirked.

Helene shook her head, possibly telling Harry to be silent. "He made a discovery that I believe you are beginning to learn. And it drove him mad. I wasn't able to stop him, turn him back on the correct path. I wasn't able to stop his numerous dalliances with other women, I wasn't able to stop loving a man who stopped loving the world a long time before, and I wasn't able to stop him when he killed our children. So I did the next best thing."

Harry's eyes widened. "Killed him?"

The metamorphmagus nodded slowly, all traces of her normally playful attitude gone.

He tried to find words to say but was interrupted before he could speak by Helene closing the gap between the two and pressing her lips to his. A woman, ten years older than he, a murderer. And here he was, lips brushing against hers. The auburn-haired witch's lips were uncannily soft, and Harry briefly wondered if she had morphed her lips to feel so divine. Hands ran down his back, fingers pressing at different angles and areas that left his spine rather tingly. As if on command, his arms wrapped around the slight witch as Helene pressed herself closer to him. Suddenly, a tongue brushed against his lips, seeking entrance.

He complied. It was easy to ignore sex and sensuality when one forcibly kept themselves away from it, but the moment Helene's lips touched his, Harry felt feverish, remembering each counter quickly, what he had lost when he and Ginny had broken up. He may have had willpower, but not in the face of this. His hands, as if they had a mind of their own, slipped down and cupped the elder witch's bottom, easily lifting her into his arms. She wrapped her legs around him. In two fluid steps and a fall, Harry was painfully aware that they fell on the bed, overturning some of the delivery boxes that had been on the mattress. But even still, they continued their assault. Her tongue flicked across his. His across hers, into her mouth, where here teeth lightly clamped down in a playful hold of his tongue.

Harry could not help but chuckle, a deep sound emanating from the back of his throat. His hands snaked down the curve of her torso while she lost her own in his hair, moaning as he broke off to plant a butterfly kiss on her throat. Helene laughed, ticklish, but took no rest before attacking his lips once more as his fingers moved to the flat of her stomach, tapping and dancing to an unheard tune.

If he did not stop now, he would–his fingers found the hem of her shirt, snaking under it. An appreciative gasp came from the older woman. Both grinned at each other. Harry knew he had always had a playful relationship with Helene, but he never expected _this _to come of it. He moved in for another kiss, caressing the soft skin that covered the beauty's diaphragm...

And then, a strange thought ran unbidden in his mind. An image. One of Hermione glaring at him in disapproval, and Harry recoiled, separating himself from Helene, whom looked as though she had been punched. He sat up on the edge of the bed, looking away at the door.

"_Her_, isn't it?" Helene spat. Harry flinched, he had seen Helene serious, playful, and annoyed. But never so vitriolic before. It startled him a bit.

But he did not lie. "Yeah. Her."

"You can't _have_ her, you know that?" Helene placed her chin on his shoulders and inspected the walls seriously. "She'll always love him."

Harry nodded morosely. "I know."

Helene snorted derisively, paused, then added, almost as an afterthought: "You could come with me."

"Where?"

"France. Germany. Maybe even America. We could get away."

The rest of his life spent with Helene. On hot beaches in Marseille, or eating on Potsdamer Platz in Berlin, or huddling close to each other during the harsh Chicago winter, taking the L-train with the Sears tower the only thing visible in the blizzard. Spending nights with the auburn-haired witch in his arms. It was a lovely thought.

But Hermione's disapproving look stared back at him. And he imagined simply sitting at 221A Sir Thomas street in front of his fireplace, reading a book with Hermione whilst a winter storm decimated the outdoors.

And there really was no contest.

"I..." Harry started, "I need to get back to Greengrass."

Helene drew back reluctantly. "Did you really think it wouldn't be possible? After how much you've relied on me for cases, and I've relied on you for human connection? For the past two years, you're the only real friend I had. Of _course_ I'd end up feeling this way."

"That's your problem, Helene," Harry said softly, turning back to cup her chin. "You should have relied on someone else for a Lifejacket. I'm no good for that."

"And that's your problem," she replied despondently, "you don't think you can be fixed. You don't think you have a choice. No free will."

Harry stood up. "If there was, I'd be grinding coffee beans in Columbia. My father was an Auror. My mother was an Auror. My entire childhood was _preparation_ to become an Auror. There are no choices. You're born into your station. _You are_ what _you are_."

He moved through the bead curtain without looking back, only barely hearing Helene's quiet plea of: "God, help that man."

Harry shrugged and left the tavern, where he found Daphne huddled up against herself in the cold:

"What the fuck took you?" She asked, reverting to her charming American way of speaking.

"We had a conversation. About free will."

Daphne sneered. "So you wasted time and had me sent out into the cold on the account of bloody _philosophy_!? You know something, Potter? I hate you more and more every day."

"I know. But you hate everyone more and more everyday. It's not like I'm getting any special treatment. Now let's go."

Apparating back to the NIM, the rest of the day was fairly uneventful. Dean, surprisingly, did not ask if Helene had any information on Shankly, and instead, let Harry and Daphne have free reign of the Gringotts files. They spent an hour looking over them until shift was over. Daphne was up first, stating she had an important family get-together to attend. Harry volunteered to look over the files, though he knew his mind was going to be elsewhere that night. Mainly on the topics of Mareville, Persephone, and Helene.

Andromeda had taken Teddy for the night, so Harry was left gloriously alone. But, he used to prefer loneliness. Now the house felt big with Teddy's presence, or Hermione coming through the floo to talk to him. So Harry preoccupied himself with the Gringotts files, passing over a few names: paying the bills, exchanging money with Gringotts, and numerous other businesses: Nimbus, the broom company; Deres, a food company; Atlas Corp; Ozymandias Inc; and even harmless places like Madam Malkin's Robes, and buying a few Skiving Snackboxes from George at WWW.

Realizing there was nothing in the files, and trying to suppress the growing need for Agilian, Harry threw the papers onto his table and closed his eyes.

When he came to, someone stood over him. Even though bleary-eyed and groggy, Harry was able to ready himself for an attack. A soft feminine giggle interrupted his fluid defense and he blinked a few times. When his vision cleared, Helene stood before him, smiling softly. Harry relaxed, lying back down on the couch.

"What are you doing here?" Harry asked, looking wary.

"I flooed over. Harry, I think I'm leaving England tomorrow," she stated, "and I want to stay here for the night."

"And if I don't want you to?"

Helene squatted, lowering herself to Harry's level. "Just one night. Just this once. And never again."

She _was_ beautiful.

"Besides," she continued. "It'll take your mind off... _things_."

Agilian, she meant. Taking Harry's silence as invitation, Helene slid onto the couch and conjured a cover for the two, placing it over them and snuggling close to Harry.

"How long have you wanted to do this?" Harry asked.

Helene sighed against his chest. "Months," she admitted. "At first I was intrigued by you. Then baffled by you. Then–" she paused.

"Then?" Harry asked.

"–Then attracted to you," she looked up and smiled. "You think I was joking whenever I made those sex remarks. If you had said yes to any of the propositioning, I'd have jumped you."

"And is it attraction still?"

"No–well, yes... a bit. But that's not all."

"What is, then?"

Helene smiled mysteriously. "A woman doesn't tell."

Harry decided it was best to rebuff her. "Helene, you know we can't–"

"–_Yes_ you can," Helene cut across Harry, her voice dangerously even and her glacial eyes sparkling madly. "Whatever you think you may have become, Harry, never forget that you are a human, first and foremost. Humans have needs, Harry. Even you." They were playing a game, a contest of whose will would win: Helene's nymphomania or Harry's prudery.

"No I don't," Harry said defensively, one last weak stand to keep the older witch at bay.

She called his bluff however, scooting into Harry whilst he slid back until he was trapped against the other end of the couch. When cornered, Helene smiled demurely and caught his lips with her own, hands trailing southward until she stopped directly above a rather... sensitive area and broke the kiss with a devious smile:

"It seems this little organ begs to differ."

Harry half-closed his eyes at the sensation. "Juvenile... reaction. The body doesn't always follow what the mind... wants."

He bit back a gasp as Helene started rocking her hand back and forth. "You want my opinion?" She asked in a low, heady, sultry voice, "You need to listen to your body a bit more." Her smile was dazzling.

And, after that, it really was no contest.

* * *

_October 15, 2002 7:26 PM_  
_Greengrass Family House, Dartmouth, Devon, UK_

Daphne stood on the crest of hill, looking out over the rapidly darkening sky with a nostalgic sigh. For the first seventeen years of her life, the rolling hills and and foggy moors had been her home. As a young girl, she ran and played with her father, and her sister. Frolicking over the valleys and hills, hidden among the trees, it was a sort of heaven for her. Every year she finished with Hogwarts, Daphne loved to see the moors and the deep fogs that so long symbolized home to her.

When she had finished Hogwarts, Daphne had longed to go out into the city. At the time, directly after the war, she had wanted to leave the country altogether. She would settle in America, she thought, a city far away that carried no memory of home. She thought she would travel to some place far, far away; she even settled on the city: Seattle. She would open up a small coffee shop, maybe a bar. But not those trashy bars where the dregs of society would come in to poison their livers before going back home to beat their wives. It would be a classy place. Designed in a manner after those lounge bars in all the Connery-era James Bond movies. Dim lights, comfortable leather booths, glossy mahogany tables. It would be a hit. Daphne even spent time perfecting American mannerisms, from the accent to slang to swears, Daphne was a bastardized American through and through. And she knew it would help her settle away from her old life.

But such things were not meant to be. The family needed Daphne more than ever after the war, having stuck its neck out for the light and opposing Voldemort, rather than keeping the aura of neutrality it had so long maintained. They were unsure of retaliatory attacks from the shambles left of the Death Eater kin, and with Daphne's father's injury during the Final Battle, they were left without income. Of course, the papers glossed over that, only recounting the exploits of Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger with gleeful ferocity.

She liked the three well-enough. Not so much Ron, but she assumed the feeling was mutual. He thought she was a dark wizard, and she thought he was a giant tosser. No love lost, really. Though, she had to admit, after their lunch date, Daphne found the redhead somewhat agreeable and Tracey had taken quite a shine to him. Hermione, she thought, _could_ have been a good friend. But she was a Muggleborn and some of the more puritanical Slytherins would not take kindly to Daphne getting cozy with a Mudblood. Both had an unspoken contest over who could achieve the highest marks in class. Hermione won, of course, but Daphne had the feeling that both of them knew she could wipe the floor with the bushy-haired brunette in a duel. Harry, she always liked, and admired from afar. No, it certainly was not anything romantic, but it was the way he _carried_ himself. Soft, unassuming, not caught up in his own grandeur, but at the same time commanding, and strong. He dressed like a bum, looked very Dickensian, but seemed to command more respect than the most well-dressed of the student body. Very different than the likes of Draco Malfoy. He was respectable.

But that was before the pitiful state of affairs left to the Greengrass family.

So, having finished Hogwarts, Daphne found herself in the Auror Program with Potter, though they never said more than two words to each other. Daphne was too bitter about being forced into the Auror Program, and Potter seemed too caught up in his own world to talk to.

She had a sneaking suspicion he was depressed.

Though, for what reason, Daphne had not a clue.

Anti-Terrorism interested Daphne. After all, Voldemort could be considered a sort of terrorist. She joined Terrorism and heard rumors of Potter bouncing from section to section. From the Soldier Unit when he first started out, to a stint in the Narcotics Unit, he was even working with the Anti-Terrorism unit for a few months (though Daphne never mustered the effort to speak to him), before finally settling on the Serious Crimes Unit and focused on Homicide. Truthfully, Daphne never actually thought she would end up working with Harry.

And he was very different than she had thought. And yet, the same.

He was haughty and arrogant in his own way, willing to browbeat an opponent if he was sure he was right. It could rub some people the wrong way, but Daphne was a good judge of character and believed it was because he had nothing else to hold onto. Even his pride was charming, somehow. It was hard _not_ to like the man. He would be a good friend, Daphne thought. Maybe she would consider making the full-time switch to Narcotics if Harry decided to stay. Besides, now that she knew about this Persephone deal, it would be wiser to stick closer to Harry than separate.

"Daph?" Called a feminine voice, "Daph? There you are!"

Daphne turned to see her little sister, Astoria, smiling at her with her fists on her hips. "Come inside, Daph! You'll catch cold!"

"Coming," Daphne replied, slow to get up.

Astoria was a charming witch. She had brains, beauty, and a personality to back it up with. Truthfully, she reminded Daphne quite a lot of Hermione Granger if she were not so socially awkward. Which, to Daphne, made it all the more ironic that she was engaged to Draco Malfoy, the stories of Malfoy and Granger's hatred for one another were fantastical even when not exaggerated.

That being said, it was no contest which daughter of Cyrus Greengrass was the more lovely one. Sweet, charming Astoria, or crass, sarcastic Daphne.

Daphne slowly stood up off the ground, dusting her jeans and the frost off her jacket. She smiled at the outerwear, remembering when she had first bought it. Her father asked why she was not wearing robes, and Daphne replied that they were going out of style. Wizards were more integrated with muggles than ever before, it would be foolish to go around wearing styles from the Dark Ages. Cyrus Greengrass simply scoffed and said: "With Voldemort it was all purebloods all the time; with the new Ministry it's all about the muggles. What ever happened to moderation, to restraint?"

"We live in a world that does not know the word," Daphne had smiled. Her father sighed, but his deep-blue eyes (eyes Daphne had inherited) twinkled with mirth.

Daphne was quite fond of her father, she had always been closer to him than her mother, whom was simply an older version of Astoria, down to the oak-colored hair and sea-green eyes and sweet-as-sugar personality. Truth be told, Daphne had been surprised when Astoria was sorted into Slytherin. In fact, she had suspected that her little sister would follow her mother's footsteps and be placed into Hufflepuff.

Done with reminiscing upon the ghosts of her paths, Daphne strode away from the moors she had loved as a child. She was an adult now, her life was in metropolitan Liverpool with four Gryffindors she had never thought she would befriend, and one Slytherin Daphne_ knew _she would never befriend.

The moors had no place in her life.

Daphne sighed, picking herself from the frosted ground. Her breath in chilly wisps, reminding her of the first night she had worked with Potter and Creevey, smoking cigars. The moors, the valleys, hills, and crests stained purple by the deep, inky sky passed by. Daphne tried not to look back, but they _were _beautiful.

She supposed she should feel hurt, maybe even betrayed by Potter. Ministry attempts at _Necromancy_? That was not something a person could just erase from their mind and continue on as nothing had changed! Everything she stood for, everything she believed was suspect if this Helene character of Harry's was telling the truth. And why would an old crock like Xenophilius Lovegood have access to such information? Furthermore, how could Helene have gotten classified information like that?

It hurt her head to even _think_ of the possibilities.

Yes, it should have upset her. But, no such feeling came. Only a deep sense of loss, of longing. The moors were exactly that. They were her childhood: when her father worked for the government, the government that would always protect and serve. But, now... Daphne really hoped some pertinent information came up to exonerate the Ministry. After all, Helene did not provide much evidence to prove that the Ministry was running these tests. And yet, Harry believed every word that came out of her mouth. Every bloody word. He trusted the woman, no matter how he spun his perceived dislike of her, there were probably only two people in the world Potter trusted more than the Frenchwoman, but neither of them were involved in information-brokering.

And Potter knew better than to believe in just anything a pretty woman told him. So it must have been true. And suddenly, it felt as though the world had shifted around her. Daphne could not accurately describe what she felt. It was not fear. No, fear would have been preferable to what she felt, or more precisely, the absence of what Daphne knew she should feel. Yes, she felt different. But not sad. Just empty. Was this what it was like to learn a secret that had been hidden from a person for years, and they suddenly learn the truth?

Daphne had to talk to Potter.

But first, Dinner with the family.

* * *

_7:45 PM_

Dinner was a dignified affair, and Daphne felt rather queasy throughout the whole thing. Perhaps she had become used to eating alone at her London flat or exchanging loud moans and groans with a person she had picked up in a bar, or maybe even used to the rowdy spectacle of having lunch and dinner with the Gryffindor Crew in the NIM Narcotics. Daphne hid a reflexive smile behind a napkin, remembering two days earlier, when Seamus dumped a bottle of water on a dozing Blaise Zabini, only to be on the receiving end of a rather powerful stinging hex. Afterwards, while a grinning Seamus nursed his arm, Harry offered to clean off the water, simply evaporating it and condensing it back onto the poor Slytherin, whom yelped and retreated to his work station, wide-awake for the rest of the day.

"What's so funny, Daph?" Astoria questioned, daintily plopping a small piece of mutton into her mouth. Draco, whom had joined the Greengrass family for dinner, merely looked up questioningly.

Daphne shrugged. "Thinking about work."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Drugs make you smile?" He drawled, Daphne shook her head:

"No, I'm remembering something funny that happened to Zabini at lunch, you ponce." Daphne paused to take a nonchalant sip of her drink. Astoria gave her a playful glower, her father smiled, and her mother shook her head good-naturedly.

Draco, however, rolled his eyes. "Did Potter do the water bottle thing?"

"How did you–"

"–Because he and Weasley did it to me when I fell asleep once. Watch out, next time they'll clip off his tie."

Daphne pictured a sopping-wet Draco Malfoy being pranked by Potter and Weasley and could not help but chuckle.

"I don't think it's that funny," Draco replied tonelessly, only adding to the humor Daphne saw in the situation:

"It's a little funny, you have to admit."

"Yes, when it happens to someone else," Draco begrudgingly agreed. "Seeing it happen to Zabini would have been worthwhile, however."

Cyrus Greengrass, whom had looked thoughtful throughout most of the banter, spoke up. "How is Mister Potter doing? He's gone out of the limelight since breaking up with Ginny Weasley. People are worried about him: moving away from London, barring himself from wizarding society–"

"–And don't forget about the donations, Cyrus," Daphne's mother, Anastasia, added.

"–Yes, the donations," Cyrus nodded. "Some of us would like to know if he's alive or not."

Daphne, however, had ever assurance Potter was alive, and was instead, intrigued by something else. Judging by the appraising look on Malfoy's face, Daphne assumed he was interested in the same topic:

"Wait. Donations? What about donations?" Daphne asked.

Cyrus, surprised by the change in topic, shrugged and explained: "Mister Potter, we think, has decided he has no use for his money. Anonymous donations are made out almost monthly, going to various inner-city orphanages, foster homes, and the like. Some Magical, some muggle. Now, most of the wizarding elite, pardon my language–" the middle-aged man apologized in advance, blue eyes twinkling with mirth, "–don't give a bleeding shite about the poor, but someone who works with money might find interest in where all the money is from. The payments are made out by a House-Elf named Kreacher. The House Elf at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. A home that Mister Potter inherited from Sirius Black. And it's no secret that the Potter-Black fortune is dwindling, though many people suspect Potter as being far less magnanimous than he appears to be."

Draco shook his head disbelievingly. "All those galleons..." he murmured dispiritedly. "Money accumulated dating back to the Roman Empire being spread around. Wasted."

"I wouldn't call that money wasted," Daphne disagreed.

Draco shrugged. "Perhaps you and I see economics differently. I think he is being wasteful."

"He's a philanthropist," Astoria stroked her chin thoughtfully, Cyrus nodded vigorously. Even Anastasia looked somewhat impressed by Potter's benevolence.

Daphne snorted. "He's a communist."

"Wasteful," Draco reiterated. "And probably exactly what he wants everyone to think of him."

Everyone at the table turned head, waiting for Malfoy to elaborate. "Potter hates being seen as a hero. Because he knows how fickle the public actually is. The Boy Who Lived? Not to him. I always used to think he let the title get to his head. But he didn't. He hates parties, he hates being a social butterfly. The man would rather spend his nights looking over murders than going to a party. He's a natural Auror. I think he just wants to be left alone. You know, to his own, smaller world. He doesn't have to be a dancing bear for everyone, he can be himself. If he has to play the irresponsible playboy, he will. Bloody hell, I think even if he had to play the villain, he would."

Daphne raised an eyebrow. "That's quite the write-up you've got on him."

"I'm an Auror. I do pick on some things about my coworkers and superiors."

"Is that what it is? Sure seems creepier than that," Daphne drawled.

"Yes, yes, mock if you will. But I'm right. I know it." Draco sneered without any real malice. "The man's held up the world on his shoulders for a long while now. I don't think he'd just turn around and become part of that world he's carrying."

"Yes, it wouldn't do for Atlas to start hugging the globe, would it?" Astoria agreed, smirking, though it eluded Daphne as to why her sister found that statement so funny.

Draco was silent for a long time. "No, it wouldn't do at all."

Daphne leaned back in her chair. Potter continued to be a mystery. Dragging her into some wild conspiracy theory from the 1940s, giving away all his money, turning into a recluse. Daphne decided that either he was planning on becoming Batman or killing himself. Either way, the raven-haired Auror had caught her attention, and if there was one thing about Daphne Greengrass, it was that her curiosity often got the better of her. And soon, she would have a straight answer of who Harry Potter _really _was.

_First thing tomorrow_, she thought.

First thing tomorrow.

* * *

**A/N:** I know, I know: boring explanation chapter, but it had to be done. And I might lose more than a few readers over what happened between Helene and Harry, but I think this is necessary. Why? It will become more apparent next chapter. Besides, Helene has made it quite clear she's leaving England, so it won't last. In any case, be patient with me, H/Hr will be coming. It's just the plot moves along at a pace where the relationship needs to be pushed back.

Chapter Notes:

"And there really was no contest" - Harry has some crazy willpower for a man who hasn't has any sex for as long as he has. Though, he's a human, and prone to failure, just like everyone else.

Could have been friends - Daphne herself bought into the fearmongering brought about by the pureblood Slytherins. She wanted to be friends with Hermione, but let her fear of taking a side interfere with it; she admired Harry but said nothing for fear allying herself with the 'light'.

The Bar in Seattle - Daphne wanted to leave the country but was forced to stay for her family and take a job she didn't particularly enjoy due to her loyalty. Frankly, this ties into some of this particular Daphne's character inspirations. Oddly enough, if there were two characters that influenced Daphne more than anything, it would be Calamity Jane from Deadwood (her gruff and seriously foulmouthed exterior), and Miranda Lawson from the Mass Effect Series (Devotion to family, unrestrained curiosity, coldness/unwillingness to let anyone close, etc.).

The Moors - Like the photos with Dennis and the birds with Dean, the moors exemplify Daphne's internal struggle.

Cyrus Greengrass - I've found a lot of fics that portray Daphne's father to be a megadouche. I decided to make him more neutral. He's no pureblood-racist, but when it comes to wizards vs. muggles, he certainly isn't a sympathizer.

Dancing Bear - Draco says Harry doesn't want to be a toy for someone's amusement. Harry thinks being alone will give him that barrier. Spoiler alert: It won't.

"It wouldn't do for Atlas to start hugging the globe, would it?" - This is a partial title drop that also ties into Daphne's earlier comment of "He's a communist" when told of Harry's donations. The title is a reference to Ayn Rand's _Atlas Shrugged_, which essentially is about Anarcho-capitalists taking over the world with Rand's philosophy of Objectivism. In a speech in the book, one of the characters likens the bourgeoisie to Atlas holding up the rest of the world: forced to pay for the poor and carry the weaker. This character urges Atlas to 'shrug' the world off and let it tumble to its doom while the Atlas reclaims his glory. Harry would be the opposite of that, a man who sacrifices all his wealth (wealth he didn't earn), and gives it to the weaker. Astoria likens Harry to Atlas, but instead of shrugging off the world, he turns around and hugs it. That, and it would _so _be a book Draco would read.

Thanks again for reading, and be sure to review!  
Geist.


	13. Delirium Tremens Pt 3: Fever Dreams

Disclaimer: All things Harry Potter belong to JKR. This chapter has heavy reference to drug use, fair warning.

Summary: Part Three. The Dealers prepare for the arrival of a new pusher. Daphne makes social call. Helene leaves a last bit of advice for Harry. Harry discuss Helene's findings with Control, and finds himself out of his depth when tasked to find an arms dealer to get clearance to come anywhere nearby Mareville.

In other news, the Prologue is currently being edited.

* * *

The King of Limbs

Part 2

"Nothing is real."  
- Helene de Beauvoir

IX: Delirium Tremens  
Section Three: Fever Dreams

* * *

_October 16, 2002 7:12 AM  
Irola Towers, Liverpool, UK_

"Rise and shine, Nicky, your fever dreams about Turk can wait 'til after brekkie!" A gruff, masculine voice called into the small apartment, no larger than the size of a cell at Barathrum. A rickety wooden door, nearly broken at the hinges, swung open to reveal a tall man with laughing brown eyes and a devilish smirk carrying a cup of tea. On the other side of the miniscule room was a pile of a rags atop a soiled mattress, a tuft of straw-blond hair stuck out of the rags.

Silence reigned for a moment, and then a lazy groan of protest came from the huddled mass of blankets, indicative of someone being awoken:

"You're a tosser, you know that, Reed?" The voice that emerged from the bedsheet monster was a tenor deepened by years of smoking, with a light Londoner drawl glossing over his strong French accent.

The man at the door, tall and muscular Andre Reed, smiled back. "If I had waited, everyone else would have left without you. Come on, up you get, need to breathe some life into that matchstick you call a body, mate."

Another grunt came from the pile of rags.

"Come on, Nicky, you'll feel much better if you eat," Reed stopped and huffed, annoyed, "how did you manage to do half the things you've done when you're this much of a slob here."

"Please leave," came the annoyed response. Reed proceeded forward with his cup of tea, holding it out over the rags:

"Spot of Earl Grey change your mind?"

Silence again filled the room. Reed smiled, knowing it would come at any second.

And just as he had thought, the sheets shifted as an arm shot out of the covers, peeling back layer by filthy layer until a handsome, though slightly wiry, man in his early thirties appeared underneath all the covers. Though sleep-stained, his light green eyes took in the sight of the proffered cup and snatched it away from the tall man, taking a tentative sip and smiling as the familiar warmth spread through him. _No way to come alive like tea_, he thought absentmindedly, before remembering something Reed had said:

"You know I hate it when people call me that."

"Call you what?" Reed asked, looking slightly confused.

"Nicky. My name is Nicholas, not Nicky."

Reed merely looked amused. "My apologies, your grace."

"Fuck you."

"Maybe another time," Reed replied carelessly, "we've got a big day ahead of us. Apparently Shankly's got us a pusher from the capitol. Apparently he checks out. He's supposed to be coming into town later tonight. In the mean time, Shank wants us to get everything squared away and running smoothly by the time this bloke gets to the Towers."

Nicholas nodded. "Well, efficiency is your job. My job is to make sure this operation doesn't get made and you don't end up with your brains splattered across the street."

Reed touched his head lightly a couple of times, as if to assess whether or not his brain was still encased in his skull. Finding that it was, Reed flashed Nicholas a winning smile:

"Keep up the good work."

Nicholas did not smile. "Do we have a name on the pusher?"

"Yeah," Reed stroked his chin thoughtfully, "Calls himself Bubbles Dunlop. Don't know who would curse their kid with that name, but, you know, some people do like their drugs."

"Bubbles Dunlop? That sounds idiotic," Nicholas agreed.

Reed stood up. "We can talk all about it later. In the mean time, get ready, we're gonna need you geared up and ready to go today."

"Why, are you expecting trouble?" Nicholas questioned, taking another sip of his tea as Reed moved to a grimy window, lit aglow from the light of the rising sun:

"Expecting? No, not today specifically. But eventually, always."

"Always?"

"The world's changing, D'Arcy, and this game's dying in it. We better expand or play dead with it. And, basic rule of thumb for these situations is: when expanding, always expect trouble."

With that, Reed turned heel and stalked out of the room, leaving Nicholas to stare out at the rays of sunlight bombarding the dirty window.

* * *

_8:14 AM_  
_Harry Potter's Residence, Liverpool, UK_

"Rise and shine, Henry, your dreams about Miss Granger can wait."

Harry groaned, shifting in bed: "Shut up, Helene."

A lighthearted chuckle met his words. "I never took you to be so rough in the sack. We should have done this _ages_ ago." Harry turned over and peeked out one eye, catching the auburn-haired beauty staring wistfully at the ceiling:

"So your husband killed your children?"

Helene quirked an eyebrow and turned to face the Auror. "That's what I said happened, isn't it?"

"Come on," Harry snorted, "did you really expect me to believe that? I'm not as gullible as everyone seems to think. You just happened to walk in on your husband casting the the Separator Curse, and, instead of just killing him quickly, as most normal people do when learning their spouses just committed filicide, you were struck by genius and finished him off with the same spell?"

Helene looked unimpressed. "In all our time together, one thing you could never accuse me of is being _normal_."

"Perhaps that's it," Harry stroked his stubble in mock-thought, "or not. Sure, you're not normal, but there's one other thing that always gets you: you can't resist a good caper can you?"

"What?"

"Pulling the wool over someone's eyes, lying to them just to take enjoyment out of watching them trip all over themselves because of the sob story you give them. I mean, come on, it'll get you all warm and fuzzy inside when you're hiding out in Bucharest or Petersburg, knowing you pulled one over the bloke who put Voldemort in the ground. Now, I don't know why it'd get you warm and fuzzy because I'm quite sure your soulless and incapable of feeling warmth or happiness of any kind, but that's neither here nor there."

"That's mighty bigheaded of you, Potter," Helene's reply was frosty, "since when did we start following the Harrycentric model of the universe."

Harry shook his head. "That's really clever, Harry instead of Helio, but stop evading. Your husband, whose wand checked out and hadn't cast a Discerpa, didn't kill those kids, did he?"

Helene remained silent, glaring furiously.

"The question remains, however: did you? And if you didn't, who are you protecting?"

The brunette took some time to compose herself and spoke at length. "Maybe no one. Maybe someone. Maybe the entire world. That's not for you to know."

Harry shrugged. "I guess not."

The bed shifted slightly as Helene emerged from under the covers, nude as the day she was born, and strutted towards her clothes, tossed in a haphazard pile near the doorway. Harry made no attempt to hide his stare from the sashay of the elder witch's hips.

"I'll be leaving today," Helene said, sounding almost rueful. "I don't think we'll ever see each other again. In any case, it was nice knowing you, Henry."

"Are you sure you have to leave?"

"Quite sure, it feels like people are watching me."

"That's not paranoid at all," Harry smiled, throwing his own clothes on as Helene started down the stairs and glided toward the fireplace.

Helene snorted. "Just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean no one's out to get me."

"Right, because that's a sane way to live life," Harry replied sardonically, before extending his hand out. "It was nice knowing you, too."

The information broker took it, gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek, turned toward the firepit, opened the pot of floo powder and grasped a handful, gazing deeply into the smoldering embers for a moment, before turning back. "Oh, and Harry?"

"Yes?"

"You really should get to work on Miss Granger. We both know Ronald plans on asking her to marry him within the next few months. If she says yes, which she most undoubtedly will–"

"You don't know that," Harry countered.

Helene grinned wolfishly. "Oh, Henry, never change! Your naïveté in all things emotional is _too_ cute. The woman spent most of her childhood being hated for being different, for being smart, for being magical, who knows? She comes to the magical world and no one likes her because she's a mudblood–"

"Helene–" Harry warned.

"What? It's not even that offensive! Bloody politically correct wankers..." before Helene could go off into an incoherent ramble on the evils of conformity, Harry growled in annoyance, setting the witch back on her original topic. "–No one likes her because she's a _muggleborn_–" 'muggleborn' came out in a sarcastic drawl, "except for Harry Potter and the Weasleys. Her family away from family, where she has 'brothers' and 'sisters'. Do you really think she would want to lose all that?"

"So what, you're saying she's afraid? Why would she be? There's nothing to fear."

"Of course," Helene agreed, "but you've conditioned all sense of fear out of yourself. It makes you strong, yes, but it also makes you what you are: someone who sees ills but doesn't know how to cure."

"What are you even saying?"

"To truly contribute to life, you must have some level of respect and fear of death," Helene replied. "Granger is an idealist."

"An idealist is just–" Harry began.

"–a cynic who hasn't yet seen the world, yes, yes, we know. But that's beside the point: she is normal human, unlike us. A person who is... for the most part, whole. So she feels fear as any normal human would, and with her past abuses, she fears the loss of intimacy."

"Spare me the psychology lecture."

"She'll marry him because she doesn't want to alienate the Weasleys, and by extension, force you to chose between them and her. And he'll marry her because, well, he doesn't want to lose her to you. It may sound cold and calculating, but that will be the basis of such a union."

Harry shrugged, maintaining a cold exterior. "Such is life. We can't base our entire existence of a few erotic fever dreams, people have to connect with something tangible. Even fear is a better motivator than lust. Lust is passing fancy. Fear is very real."

"Is it?"

Harry nodded. "It is."

Helene shook her head, exasperated, as she stepped into the firepit. "_Nothing is real_. You make your own truth, and you can hide from that 'truth'."

"Look, you can fling that dervish philosophy at me all you want, but if you make your own truth, that means other people get to do the same. Meaning it's not my choice. It's hers. Besides, I wouldn't want to nitpick at the possibilities, but don't you think she'd be more afraid of losing friendship with the Weasleys if Hermione jumped into the sack with me as opposed to merely rejecting a marriage proposition from Ron?"

Helene was unfazed, it appeared. Harry growled lightly, for such a smart woman, she often did lack simple logic. She rose up on her haunches, and matched Harry's growl with one of her own.

"It appears to me that man without fear is a coward, after all." She cast him one last baleful look, perhaps intended to galvanize Harry into action, before barely whispering 'Basilisk Fang' and being carried away in a whirlwind of emerald fire.

And just like that, Helene de Beauvoir, a fixture of Harry's time with the Aurors, had left his life.

* * *

_12:34 PM  
NIM - Narcotics Division_

Daphne relished the feel of the wooden beads against her lips.

She held the rosary pressed against her lips as she looked down at the piling paperwork. Of all the weeks for Potter to take off, it had to be this one, where bank invoices were rolling in for marble and iron–things that could become deadly, but rarely ever did.

There were many times where colleagues, the latest of which being Potter, had asked Daphne why she carried around a rosary. The best answer she could give, often, was that many magicals believed in many different forms of the afterlife and that she took most comfort in the Christian Heaven. Though, that was not it, Daphne knew. It was something deeper, baser, far more elemental than notions of comfort.

But she didn't know what.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Finnigan asked. Pulling a chair out from the circular Narcotics Round table he turned it so the back faced Daphne, and straddled the seat.

Daphne let out a grunt. "I'm a bit angry, to be honest. Look at all these invoices from Gringotts! The bastard is spending enough to feed a goddamned army! Why did Potter have to take this week off? I mean, shouldn't there be a month waiting period before I have to cover for him? I mean, we haven't even known each other a week!"

Daphne had gone into a bit of a tizzy when she was informed that Harry would be out of commission for a few weeks, which had caused no small amount of amusement for Seamus:

"And yet look how friendly you two are already," Seamus drawled, waggling his eyebrows.

"Fuck you," Daphne drawled back, equally as deadpan as the Irishman, "I'm not interested in him and that man is more interested in murder than he is the prospect of sex. So please, drop it."

"As you wish, _madonna mia_."

"You're not Italian, stop."

"Fine."

"When's Creevey supposed to go out there?"

"An hour, two, at the most. Hopefully nothing goes wrong; I never really talked to the him much when we were in Hogwarts, but the little wanker's grown on me, it'd be really distressing to see him get made."

"I sense sarcasm," Daphne observed, quirking an eyebrow.

"Creevey's a big boy. I actually want to see how he acts under pressure. See if he's up to scratch."

"Up to scratch?"

"Yeah, well... Freeman's good in a tight spot, Dean and meself aren't too poor, and Potter! That yoke could face a firing squad without flinching."

"What do you mean by that?"

Seamus grinned, leaning in. "Harry's all secretive-like. I don't know if he does that to pull in the feeks or not, but he does. Sometimes I wonder if the man hides his actions from himself."

"Save me the glowing praise and get to the point?"

"You know, Miss Greengrass, they told me you were a hardarse, but I figured pretty girl like you might be up for some intrigue, especially for mysterious and handsome Harry Potter."

"You know, I'm starting to think _you_ have the fancy for him, Finnigan."

"Possibly, but as we all know, I am wedded to the bottle."

"Hm... charming," the buxom brunette deadpanned.

"Dean did some digging up on Potter's old files, to see what our old mate's been up to since the end of the war. Most of the stuff he did with the Soldier and Anti-Terrorist Units was so down-low that Dean didn't have clearance, but some of the declassified missions... phew. Especially the one in Eastern Europe. A solid month and a half of hunting down a terrorist cell from Bucharest to Istanbul with one partner."

"What?" Daphne questioned, "That seems... rather typical."

"It's the partner we're talking about. He was also in the Soldier Unit, before transferring to Homicide with Potter. Good ol' Draco Malfoy, the king of gowls, your sister's squishy." Seamus clucked his tongue approvingly. "Two blokes who hated each other brought down a terrorist cell, apparently, if reports are to be believed, ended in a _sword fight_ on top the_ Hagia Sophia_. Hell of a story, that one."

Seamus stared upward and into space. "That bastard has all the luck."

"Does he?"

"Well, no, not really. He's terrible at life, but if you want adventure? Befriend Harry Potter."

A new voice cut in. "Is he gushing about Harry again?" Daphne and Seamus looked up to find Dean standing above them, a stern look on his normally lighthearted face. "You can gossip about our no-show later because I need you two in 311; Rodgers is on my arse about picking up the work Harry's left off since he decided that _this_ was the perfect time to go on vacation. Zabini's going to be joining you. Keep Dennis in with them and _make sure_ he doesn't get made. We've come too far to lose this advantage."

"Well, Mister Thomas," Daphne drawled, "as much as I'd love to go to a musty, moldy tenement to watch Creevey pretend to be a streetrat, Gringotts has sent in a airdrop of expenses to go over. Apparently Shankly's preparing for something with all the galleons he's throwing around."

"Preparing?"

"Haven't got a clue for what," the crass beauty shrugged, "there hasn't been much time to go over any of them what without another bloody owl crashing into the windows."

"Send them over to Potter," Dean ordered. Both Daphne and Seamus gave their 'boss' befuddled looks:

"Are you sure?" Seamus asked, "Harry did get a week and a half off, Rodgers' orders."

Daphne nodded. "I'm all for dumping my work off onto Potter, but won't this get us reamed by the DSI?"

"Not if Harry doesn't grass," Dean replied matter-of-factly, "and knowing the bloke, he'll do what we want. Least he could do. Besides, and no offense to you, Greengrass, Potter's got a better eye for these types of things."

"None taken if I'm off Gringotts' duty," Daphne snorted, relieved.

Dean nodded. "So we're in agreement? Then get your arses over to the Towers!"

The duo did not need to be told twice:

"Okay, I'll call him up," said Daphne, happy to be free of the wretched invoices.

* * *

_12:42 PM_  
_Victoria Street, Liverpool, UK_

Wandering aimlessly, Harry thought, might become a new pastime of his. There was something about walking in the chilly October air that seemed to refresh him. He carried no more than two galleons and ten pound in his wallet to avoid the temptation heading down to the more unsavory parts of the city, and instead walked to a small pub on the corner of Victoria and North John Street. It was a fashionable little alehouse that sold all forms of alcoholic beverages, though the food, Harry had learned, left something to be desired.

Given the hour, however, Harry was not in the mood for a drink, but rather a rendezvous. In the corner, where a small booth stood, a man in a hooded jacket waved Harry over to his sitting place, gesturing at an already-filled pint. Harry smiled but shook his head as he reached the man:

"I don't think I should drink given my situation, sir."

The hooded man looked up, revealing the nondescript face of Control. "Good of you, Potter. It was a test."

"Glad to see I passed," Harry drawled, pushing away the foamy beverage with a rueful face.

Control, however, apparently had no trouble getting right to business, casting a notice-me-not spell alongside a _muffliato_ to keep the conversation completely between Harry and himself. "So, apparently the ability of your contacts exceeds that of my own. You say a friend of yours found out what Persephone is?"

Harry measured his response: "Well, I haven't any solid evidence that she is right, as only the Minister of Magic and the Wizengamot have clearance to view such files, but my contact believes that Persephone is a reference to a World War Two-era Ministry Project, the goal of which was to reanimate dead soldiers to continue their fight."

"I assume it backfired," Control responded sardonically, "else we'd be facing an even bigger population crisis."

Harry snorted. "Depends on what you mean by 'backfired'. If you were a run of the mill necromancer looking for cheap labor, the Ministry did all the work for you. Even better if you were a wizard financing a war against the entirety of Europe."

"You're not saying-"

"Oh yes," Harry answered, "I _am _saying Inferi were created by the British Magical Government."

"I _really_ hope we can verify this, son," Control warned. "Are you sure your contact hasn't just lied for the money?"

"Quite sure, since I don't pay her and she's currently on the run for her life. She thinks she might have alerted someone who wants this kept secret to her presence in snooping around."

Control leaned forward and place his chin upon his fist thoughtfully. "Hmm... there is one way to find out for sure."

Harry raised an eyebrow, interested. "And what way is that?"

"No matter what resources you put into a project, you can't cover it up completely. Especially if the project is inextricably tied to a certain place. A place like Mareville. Which appears still to be placed under watch by Unspeakables and various upper-level MI-7 operatives."

"MI-7? I thought they _were_ Unspeakables."

"They were, prior to 1979, but MI-7 is now an elite black-ops branch of the Unspeakables devoted to the war of the future."

Harry cocked his head in a questioning manner. "The War of the Future?"

"Hitler mentioned it once: 'Demoralize the enemy from within by surprise, terror, sabotage, assassination. This is the war of the future'. That's what MI-7 is trained to do. Preventative war. Somewhat like the spies in the American Central Intelligence Agency. So, with that in mind, Sorrow, we have two options: Infiltrate Mareville, which given your training and magical prowess will end up with a bunch of dead Unspeakables and MI-7, or we can use a little _social_ elbow grease."

"Social? Social how?"

"We install an agent of ours into MI-7. It wouldn't be difficult, as an MI-7 operative often works two jobs to maintain a cover."

Harry smiled, wondering how much deeper this could. "So you're talking about-"

"-installing _you_ as our MI-7 Operative? Well, why _not_? You're a perfect candidate. Tell me, how many ways can you think of killing that bartender right now?" Control asked, discreetly pointing to a pudgy man that was wiping down the counter.

"What weapons do I have?"

"Tactical knife and throwing knives."

"Probably eleven," was Harry's smooth response. "Tactical knife to aortic valve, , throwing knife to jugular vein, suffocation-"

"That's enough," Control raised his hands, "you're very good at what you do. MI-7 is also very good at what you do. And you, doing what you do, will make an excellent addition to MI-7. However, it might be difficult to get you involved, and you will have to work for MI-7 as well, alongside ATCO and the Auror Department."

"Well, you're making this very easy for me," Harry snorted sarcastically.

Control made no attempt to convey humor. "What's wrong?"

"Well," Harry started, stroking his chin thoughtfully, "After the war, I thought it would be easy. Work with the Aurors, get married, have children. Buy a big house, play Quidditch with the kids—be a family man. But, well, you know how it goes. Terrorism. Drugs. MI-7. England. And of course, here I am, stuck in the middle of it. Some things never change, I guess."

Control nodded, mulling over the younger man's words, before eyeing him sympathetically:

"It will get easier," he reassured the raven-haired wizard, standing up. "I will see how I might get your name floating around MI-7, perhaps someone will catch wind of what you've done and toss you a bone. I will contact you when it is done. It shouldn't be too difficult, they've been watching your rise for years."

"They have?" Surprise was evident in Harry's question, though Control seemed to take no notice:

"In the mean time, do get better. Spend more time with your godson. And Miss Granger. Being around people you love and are in love with will do wonders for the pain."

The elder man stood as his last sentence registered in Harry's mind: "Sir, I'm not-"

"Denial gets you nowhere, Potter. Simply enjoy what you have lest you lose it."

* * *

_1:01 PM  
Irola Towers - Courtyard_

Nicholas adjusted his combat robes, shivering slightly at the cold. Winter had settled in early this year and Nicholas was fairly sure that it would be a very cold one. Sometimes he wondered what he was doing at the Towers, but every time the promise of what would come of the alliance with Damian Shankly kept him protecting the drug-addicts and the men who preyed off them.

As his job was to watch the premises, Nicholas spied on all those who would come-and-go through the courtyard, finally settling on a curly-haired blond man of average height, who was talking quite animatedly with Hawk, another one of the dealers. Reed watched the exchange from a distance, looking mildly impressed. Nicholas wagered that the blond man must have been the 'Dunlop' character Reed had mentioned earlier in the morning. Behind them, an elderly couple, one of whom appeared to be a crass Irishman and an irritated woman who would have likely been very beautiful in her younger years glided past the dealers, having been at the towers so long they were no longer even fazed by the drug trade. He followed the old couple all the way to the doors to the inside of the central tower, and once they had disappeared from view, he went back to watching Dunlop speak to Hawk some more.

While the man looked harmless, Nicholas knew better than to implicitly trust. He would keep an eye on Bubbles Dunlop.

* * *

_1:15 PM  
St. Mungo's Hospital, London, UK_

"Hermione!" Called a familiar voice as Hermione set down a patient's medical charts, looking up to see Ginny Weasley striding her way, red hair splaying backwards like a pillar of fire. "Are you off for lunch anytime soon?"

Hermione looked over her work, noticing her patient (a man injured in a broomstick accident) would be quite alright if she left and that all her other affairs seemed to be in order as well. "Sure, give me a second, Gin. But... what's with all the urgency? Usually you call ahead."

"You could say it's urgent," Ginny shrugged, "but it's really more of a warning."

"A warning for what?" Hermione asked, her eyes laced with worry.

Ginny indicated the door. "Come on, I'll tell you over some takeaway."

Hermione nodded and followed the redhead toward the end of the ward and out to the main reception room, where Hermione dashed off a note to her supervisor that she had gone out to lunch. Soon afterward, the two friends walked side-by-side down the crowded muggle London sidewalk:

"So what was so important that you practically had to force me out of the hospital?" Hermione asked once she was reasonably sure they had walked far enough that there would be no prying ears.

Ginny looked pensive. "The Prophet's about going mad. The Russians and the Americans have never been closer to war, and they're thinking we're going to be dragged into it. Aurors are going to be needed on the frontline if war does break out, Hermione."

"So?" Hermione asked, not liking where this conversation was headed as the pair stopped at a crosswalk, cars filled with blissfully unaware muggles zooming by. "What does that have to do with me?"

The redhead crossed her arms and shifted from one foot to another. "Come on, Hermione. I may not be one of your vaunted trio, but I am still Ron's sister and your friend. Ron's worried about you. He told me you wanted to join the Aurors."

Momentarily, Hermione saw red. "He told you that, did he!? And what did he say about it?"

"Exactly that," Ginny shrugged. "He's worried about you. And he's even more worried now that he's privy to this information about the state of affairs in the world."

Hermione stopped, and folded her arms much the same way her redheaded friend had done, too frustrated to even talk about the subject. "Look, Ginny, I don't want to talk about this. I'm joining the Auror Program and that's that. If Ron doesn't like that, he'll have to deal with it. After all, it can't be that hard: Harry supports my decision."

Now it was Ginny's turn to give Hermione an angry look. "Probably because Harry doesn't give half a hippogriff's shite."

Looking morbidly pleased with herself, Ginny turned around to the now empty street and marched across, leaving Hermione to play catch-up. Stunned would be the word to describe Hermione at that moment, considering she had been used to Ginny singing praises of the raven-haired man. To hear her denounce him like so was startling, to say the least. Once the honey-haired woman regained her bearings and crossed the road, she posed her question aloud:

"Why would you say something like that?"

"Because it's true?" Ginny asked rhetorically. "Harry is a great man, a very great man. But, he's not a good man. He likes to wallow in his depression and allows himself to get caught up in his obsessions. Trust me, the only reason he believes that you joining the Aurors is a good idea is because he doesn't want to waste time talking about it."

Hermione found that notion so ridiculous she nearly laughed. In fact, she did end up laughing:

"What's so funny?" Ginny asked, looking a tad annoyed at her friend's behavior, but when Hermione simply looked up and chuckled some more, Ginny continued speaking. "Look, I was jealous and selfish and possessive of Harry. I even tried to get my mother to arrange time for us to spend together because I had fooled myself into thinking I was just that in love with Harry Potter. But I've learned my lesson; Harry's destined to do great things, but he'll never be able to enjoy simpler pleasures in life. He'll probably never have a wife or children, he'll never get to enjoy those things. He may end up like Dumbledore."

"Now," Hermione began, "there's something that makes sense."

Maybe Ginny had not come to warn Hermione at all, but to go through some form of catharsis in her relationship with Harry.

"I haven't seen him since he was in the hospital. And you know what? I've felt happier in this past month and a half than I have in years," Ginny finished quietly, as if she were coming upon this revelation herself.

"So, it's gone? Like that?" Hermione questioned, placing her hand on the shorter woman's shoulder.

Ginny looked up, an expression befuddlement on her heart-shaped face. "I guess so. Just like that."

"Come on," said the elder witch, "let's get some food to fill you up."

* * *

_5:24 PM  
Harry Potter's Residence, Liverpool, UK_

Harry sat at the rosewood desk inside his study, reading. It was a strange book about a farce of a murder trial, forcing a man to be executed. In some ways, Harry could relate, having been put in a perilously similar situation prior to his fifth year of Hogwarts. Outside, a murky drizzle had fallen over the city, leaving everything wet and chilled to the bone.

The raven-haired wizard took off his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes, before placing them back on and continuing to read when there came a knocking at his door. Curiosity piqued, considering he had not had any visitors aside from Hermione, Ron, alongside Seamus and Dean from time-to-time, Harry folded his glasses and made his way to the door, peering out through the eyehole to see a sopping wet Daphne Greengrass waiting on his doorstep with a stack of what appeared to be Gringotts files.

Now, here came a question Harry had to ask himself: Would he rather do Gringotts paperwork all night, and no doubt get Hermione peeved that he was still doing work, or risk the wrath of the Greengrass, who was undoubtedly more violent than his bookish best friend. Seeing as how he would be able to get more leeway from Hermione than Daphne, Harry decided the best course of action was to open the door and appease the she-devil before she broke his door off its hinges.

As he opened the door, Harry feigned surprise: "Daphne? What are you doing here?"

"Seamus gave me your address," Daphne replied, thrusting the equally wet Gringotts papers in Harry's direction, "I came because Dean said you're not completely off the hook for the next two weeks."

Harry accepted the files and allowed Daphne entrance into his abode. Instead of coming inside once ridden of the papers, however, Daphne paused and chewed her lip as if debating something to say. This went on for fifteen of what Harry assumed must be the most awkward seconds of his life, before the brunette finally drew herself up to her full valkyrie-like stature, and simply said:

"Dean wants those files in his desk by the twenty-first."

"Right," Harry replied, and just like that, she strode away back into the rain.

Harry scratched his head in confusion; he'd never understand women. And so, with an exhale, the raven-haired wizard walked back to his study and settled his eyes on his book again.

* * *

_October 19th, 2002_  
_9:40 PM_  
_Harry Potter's Residence, Liverpool, UK_

Over the next few days, Harry became extremely grateful for Hermione's companionship. Perhaps there was something to Control's advice of being with those Harry loved. An unintended side-effect of this happy revelation, however, was Harry's further acceptance that he might be _in love_ with the woman who had been such a large part of his life for years, and that he had never noticed her before. Or maybe he had noticed, but was too afraid of losing her. Or maybe he had not, everything was too jumbled at this point. All Harry knew was that she cared for him like no one else really did. And he felt, surprisingly, the same way for her.

The healer had told Harry about her rendezvous with Ginny, and while he insisted that Ginny was for the most part correct, Hermione disagreed. She said Harry had the capability of being a caring person. Harry, on the other hand, was not so sure. Maybe that was one of the things he liked about his best friend: her unending optimism.

The night before this particular evening, Hermione had brought Teddy over as a way for Harry to ignore the pangs associated with withdrawal. When Teddy had come to the house, he had asked why Harry was shivering, but the raven-haired man told him he was just really cold. Both Teddy and Hermione brought the ailing Harry a blanket and they sat together that night, telling the little boy stories about Remus and Tonks. Teddy sat between both of them, and Harry wrapped a shaky arm around both to bring them in close when Teddy had tired of stories and instead wanted to watch a movie, _The Lion King_, of course.

For one moment when both Teddy and Hermione tried to pull Harry into singing the chorus of 'Hakuna Matata' with them (naturally, Harry obliged, even though he was quite sure a dying hyena sounded better than he), he felt like he had a family: a wife, a son, a house, something to strive for. Something _normal_.

Sometimes, life could be grand.

Currently, he sat hunched over the Gringotts files; Hermione had left two hours earlier to get ready for a date with Ron to go see a cinema film. A twinge of jealousy erupted somewhere in the base of Harry's skull when she told him so, but Harry thought he exercised admirable self-restraint in not begging her to stay. But what he had in self-restraint, Harry did not feel he had in resolve. The shakes had become quite strong in the Healer's absence, and he could barely focus, let alone write on the paper. Nevertheless, Harry persevered and wrote despite his tremors. He found two very odd, very expensive shipments charged from one of Shankly's Lieutenants to seemingly no one. Marked galleons from the bank somehow made their way out of the country and into Bulgaria. After that all news disappeared into the wind. No news came from the Aurors in said country, nor did anything turn up strange in England.

It was a little mystery.

As Harry made note of the discrepancy, he heard a scratching at his study's window. Looking out, he saw a tawny owl looking back at him with wide eyes. A post was tied to its foot. Curious, Harry stood to open the window and let the owl inside. It stuck out its foot, allowing Harry to untie the post, and left as soon as it was unburdened.

_Strange bird_, Harry thought, turning over the letter. It was a simple, stark white envelope, addressed to Harry in handwriting he had never seen before. It became even stranger when he opened the envelope to read the contents, which consisted of one simple piece of parchment:

_October 22, 2:30 PM  
Nelson's Column, London  
Come alone_  
_All will be answered._

Harry reread the contents of the brief letter several times, still unsure as to whom had sent it. Of course, there were about two and a half days before he was supposed to meet whomever the letter was from, so Harry did not fuss too much over. Harry returned to his work giving little thought to the letter he had just received.

* * *

**A/N:** Yes, yes, another short chapter, and I should be punched for making you guys wait this long for another rather boring chapter, but the next two chapters will make up for it, I swear! We'll see what the letter means, a mission in Bulgaria that takes Harry to Australia, where he has a most unfortunate and eye-opening encounter with the one and only Mr. Granger. Ron and Hermione are still on the rocks, even though both of them are 'trying' to make it work. Ginny will make another appearance and so will a fellow co-worker of hers._  
_

Chapter Notes:

As I might have said before, Helene is a compulsive liar. Whether or not she killed her children is up for debate, because (SPOILER ALERT) you'll never find out.

In 'The Green Light' Harry makes mention of a mission that took Draco and himself to Romania. The mission that Seamus mentions, the one that ended in Istanbul, is the same one.

Ginny's 'Auror-to-the-frontlines' talk with Hermione isn't just a throwaway conversation, more than Ginny's reaction to Harry's acceptance of Hermione's decision, the actual war she mentions will become very important, particularly when MI-7 becomes more important.

Control does not only see planting Harry in MI-7 as a way to get answers for Xeno's death, but also to expand ATCO's influence. Remember, above all, he wants to turn The Circus from a terrorist cell fighting terrorist cells to legitimate part of the government. MI-7 deals with direct threats to country infrastructure, and ATCO wants to assimilate due to their superior information-gathering abilities.

The Book Harry is reading before Daphne gives him the files is Albert Camus' _The Stranger_.

More World War II allusions with Hitler's 'War of the Future' quote. WWII and the years leading up to the Cold War, will factor quite often into the fic (from the War of the Future, to the Mareville Project, to Ginny's use of Churchill's 'The Iron Curtain' speech).

The wire transfer of Gringotts' gold from Shankly's account to Bulgaria is very important, and it's how The Circus/MI-7 plot and the Drug Trade subplot tie together, which go into making Mareville accessible to Harry.

This chapter was constructed differently than most, considering that Harry's pretty much out of commission for most of it, and I jumped from character-to-character. Since next chapter really starts to go into the meat of the plot again, the original Third-Person Limited POV will be restablished.

Thanks again for reading, and do drop a review if you can.  
Geist.


	14. The Clock

**Disclaimer: **If I had written Harry Potter, Ron wouldn't have been able to get into the Chamber of Secrets in DH.

**Summary**: Harry gets lucky at Nelson's Column, Ron and Ginny spy with their little eyes, Ron is enamored Harry goes on 'vacation', Hermione tries to prove she isn't mental, Harry gets name-duty, Daphne speaks from experience, Dennis finds something amazing, and Hermione has a mini-freakout at The Burrow.

* * *

The King of Limbs

Part 2

"Wouldn't expect you MI-7 types to understand."  
- Capt. Luca Rossi

X: The Clock

* * *

___October 22, 2002  
2:16 PM  
Trafalgar Square, London, UK_

"You're sure this is going to work out?" Harry asked the hooded man walking side-by-side with him.

Control nodded, the hood flapping just a little bit in the miserable London air. "It will be fine, boy. I had to get Stark to convince the Auror Deputy of Operations to consult with DoDMLE, who in turn took it to Kingsley, who batted it back down to the Unspeakables and MI-7, whom then sent you the letter. They did it surprisingly fast, these things usually take weeks. But I guess being the Wizard-Who-Won has its perks."

Harry could not help but glare at the elder man, who, despite the overlarge hooded jacket, managed to grin like a toothy child.

"What am I supposed to do?"

"Always to the point, aren't we?" Control mock-questioned, "You are to take whatever assignment they give you, and complete it. Simple and clean. However, to join the MI-7 Mamluk Division, which deals in high-level spying and assassination-"

"-There's more than one?"

Control inclined his head at Harry, no doubt giving him a 'shut up and let me speak' sort of look underneath his hood. "Yes. There is more than one. The Corsair Division deals with naval crimes, warfare, and transportation; the Pasha division allows MI-7 to make alliances within the wide wizarding world, and there are several other divisions but you need not worry about them: Mamluks deal in spying and Homeland defence, that's all you need to know."

Harry nodded, curiosity sated for now.

"Anyway, as I was saying before, joining the Mamluks requires a killcount. So, it is very likely that you will be sent on an assassination mission." Control surveyed Harry, as if trying to pull some doubt out of his expression. Harry, however, was unfazed, and kept his countenance a mask of indifference. "Hm. Usually people are more distraught when told they have to kill a person."

"It's not about whether you kill them or not, sir," Harry replied, "but whether you show a dying man kindness or spit on his grave that matters."

"That's a mature response for a man in this profession," Control mused approvingly, "too few learn it, and those that do, often learn it too late."

The two men went silent for some time, only the sounds of the cityscape disturbing the peace. Men and women, young and old milled about Trafalgar Square's fountains, some carrying birdseed to feed the feral pigeons that had made the square their home. Sounds of cars and trolleys and lorries melded into a unified roar that only a true city-dweller could appreciate. And a few meters in front of the two men was the centerpiece of the entire square: Nelson's Column.

Made in honor of Admiral Horatio Nelson, who died in the Battle of Trafalgar some 197 years earlier, it was an impressive and impeccably constructed statue. Harry looked on at the statue for some time. Nelson, made of whit marble and set atop the column, was a pensive man with a stern face and a stare that seemed to doomed to eternally look over the horizon, gazing ever onward into infinity, leaning on his sword like a old traveler weary of life but with many battles yet to face. Harry sighed, looking down at his shaking hands. The pain would settle in soon.

"How am I supposed to control it?" Harry asked.

Control stepped up right beside him, holding out a pack of cigarettes: "Just the one," he said, handing it to the shaking man. Harry took it gratefully as Control lit it, giving Harry some sense of peace for the next few minutes.

"Don't worry," reassured Control from somewhere behind Harry, "I won't be far away."

By the time Harry turned around to answer, Control was already gone, engulfed in a particularly large crowd of tourists oohing and ahhing at the Column. Harry stood rigidly, nearly in a military stance, for the next few minutes, unsure of whether or not his MI-7 handlers were watching.

Out of the coterie of tourists emerged an exquisite young woman. She had long, blonde hair and impossibly violet colored eyes, a face of such angles that Harry wondered if she was cut from granite, punctuated by glossy pink lips. Amazed at how such a pigment was possible in her eyes, Harry nearly forgot that this beauty was making a beeline for him. Her left hand squeezed into a fist, indicating she might be holding something in that hand. Her quick gait brought her within feet of Harry in no more than a few seconds.

All Harry heard from her was a low "Sell it", before she crashed into him and pressed her lips against his. Suddenly "Sell it" made a lot more sense, and it was rather easy to _sell it_ with someone like her. He returned the kiss with vigor, closing his eyes, cupping her jaw, and pulling this complete stranger into his arms. Being rather forward, Blondie licked Harry's lower lip, seeking entrance to his mouth, and despite that he wondered why a 'sell it' kiss needed to have tongueplay involved, he, as any red-blooded male would, opened his mouth on command.

For a long moment, Harry privately joked that this must have been the blonde woman's idea of a cavity search, her tongue roaming and searching every nook and cranny of his mouth. Her arms snaked underneath his topcoat, around his waist, and forced Harry flush against her. A passerby, an kindly old woman smiled at the interaction and said something about 'Young love'.

Finally, after what seemed like ages, the woman pulled back. "Not bad, Sailor," she commented.

"You're not too bad yourself, Blondie," Harry replied, smiling falsely, though her tongue had left him a bit dazed. They spoke of nothing for a time, the weather, the chances of Arsenal winning the Premier League that year (though, having spent the last few months in Liverpool, Harry had grown quite partial to the football culture there), whilst interspersing the small-talk with a few kisses. Harry smiled a bit when a hand reached into his right pants pocket and slipped something inside. He had been right about her holding something in her left hand.

Blondie buried her head into Harry's chest, as a woman who hasn't seen her significant other in ages might do. "Call me Hannah," she said against Harry's chest, voice muffled by his sweatshirt.

Right afterward, Hannah pulled away with a bright smile on her face, "Come with me," she chirped, grabbing Harry's gloved hand with hers and leading him past the fountains. Harry found himself faced with a few knowing looks and two catcalls. Keeping the embarrassed blush to himself, he fell in step with Hannah.

"Are you—?"

"—Yes," was her measured response. "Just follow."

* * *

_2:31 PM_  
_Trafalgar Square, London, UK_

A late lunch was all Ron wanted.

Instead he found two instances of bad luck. Harry had told him of a little Vietnamese place, wizard-friendly of course, nearby Trafalgar Square a couple of months back that sold some of the best Pho he had tasted outside of Ho Chi Minh City. Of course, Ron had never gotten the chance to go, but since Hermione told him that Ginny had seemed rather mopey about Harry the past few days, he decided he would take her. All he wanted to do was get some lunch, and instead, was gifted with must have been the most exquisitely awkward instance of dumb luck he had ever seen.

Walking down Trafalgar Square with Ginny, Ron spoke of a case he had got about a string of unexplained Potions-related deaths in Chelsea whilst she regaled him of a story of Susan MacMillan's youngest son, whom she had brought into work a day or two earlier.

"What ever happened to Susan?" Ron remembered asking, "Weren't she and Seamus a thing?"

Ginny shrugged. "Seamus has all but disappeared, and whenever someone asks Susan what happened between those two, she just clams up and says 'I really don't feel like talking about it right now'."

"Really? She's been married for over three years," Ron had replied, "you think she would've gotten over a bad break-up by now?"

His sister eyed him dubiously. "Somehow, I don't think it was _just_ a break-up."

Ron grunted in acknowledgement, turning to his right and looking up at Nelson's Column. He had always loved that statue. Tall and imposing, always looking on towards the horizon, possibly to a better future. Leaning on his sword like a man who had been through hell and back and simply stopped a moment, after the end, to take in the view. Let Purebloods say what they want, he knew Muggles were capable of genius.

"Eyeing that statue again, are you?" Ginny smirked. "Boys and their war games."

Ron ignored her but smiled at Ginny's quip, staring a little while longer at the statue. Ginny, however, had a strange look on her face:

"Is that Harry?" She asked. Ron's eyes snapped down to ground level. A shaggy, black-haired man stood waiting in front of the Column. And it _was _Harry, tall and imposing, standing watchfully in front of the column like an unpaid watchman. He hadn't seen them, and given that they were under crowd cover, it was unlikely that he would spot them. "Where are his glasses?"

Ron snorted. "That's the first question you ask: Where are his glasses?"

"Well, yeah," Ginny supplied, "he's practically blind without them."

"Maybe he's wearing thoses context lanes—no, that's not what Hermione called them—what were they? Ah, contact lenses." Ron snapped his fingers together, remembering the name of corrective lenses, whilst Ginny gave him a dubious look. "My question's what's he doing here?"

Ginny shrugged, she seemed to be doing a lot of that lately. "He's obviously waiting for someone."

"Someone? Like who?" As if to answer his question, Harry seemed to freeze momentarily as he caught eye of something. Ron looked in that direction to see what was going on when his heart literally stopped in his chest. A stunningly pretty blonde woman stalked up to the taller man, though she was quite tall herself, and proceeded to give him what Ron could only imagine being the best kiss in the world.

"_Bloody hell_. Go Harry!" Ron muttered to himself. Too late, however, he realized he was with his sister, Harry's ex, who watched the entire scene with a mixture of horror and amazement. "Er... that was tactless. Sorry, Gin."

"Don't be," Ginny replied, "I talked to Hermione about this already. Both Harry and I deserve to be happy, I think. And if I can't make Harry happy, and he can't make me happy, then what's the point of carrying on the relationship? I just hope that woman really cares about him and isn't just taking advantage of the name."

After what might have been the most ferocious display of public affection Ron had ever seen, Harry was led away by the blonde woman, and both Ron and Ginny were left gawking at empty space. They turned to each other and back to the retreating Harry, letting out wolf-whistles. Both Harry and the woman ducked their heads in embarrassment, not looking up for the perpetrators. The two siblings turned back to each other and laughed heartily, Ginny having to steady herself on Ron's shoulders:

"I missed this," she sighed.

Ron smiled back. "So did I."

The pair continued their trek towards Harry's recommendation restaurant, where, again, dumb luck struck. As Ron pulled a chair out for his sister, he caught familiar blonde hair sitting at the bar of this tiny Vietnamese pub, watching a football game and sipping from a pint glass. Ron, truthfully, had never found anything so attractive. She turned, as if looking for someone, and sea-foam green eyes caught his own. The woman who had helped Harry and himself out on old Xeno's case. The one who was friends with Harry's partner, Daphne. A woman who was supernaturally beautiful.

Tracey Davis.

Slytherin. Halfblood. _Slytherin_. Every sense of self-preservation told Ron this woman was a Slytherin, therefore she was dangerous. _Dangerous_. But the moment her greens caught his blues, Ron was spellbound.

Tracey gave a shy little half-smile and waved uncertainly.

Dumbstruck, Ron smiled back and, throwing caution to the wind, waved her over.

* * *

_2:55 PM_  
_0.5 km from Arsenal Gates Hotel, London, UK_

Hannah did not stop for one, two, nearly three kilometers now, and Harry was starting to think he was being led on a wild goose chase. But, as soon as Harry was about to protest, Hannah spoke up:

"Not much further, Mister Potter," she said, "about half-a-kilometer."

So they kept walking in silence. Harry did have to admit, however, walking next to a pretty woman, hand-in-hand, even if she weren't Hermione or Ginny, was rather pleasant. Soon they found themselves outside a hotel. It must have been wizard-made, considering no muggles seemed to notice it, and simply walked by as they had the NIM in Liverpool.

"In here," Hannah ordered, pulling him to the door and pushing him through.

White marble surrounded them once inside: white marble flooring, columns, walls, even the receptionist's table was made of white marble. A red velvet carpet led from the revolving doors to desk where a middle-aged woman chatted amiably on the phone. Banners hung from the ceiling, as to what, however, Harry could not tell. Few people were milling about, all of them looked to be rather wealthy. Hannah smiled at Harry, perhaps still going along with the farce of being the lovestruck blonde who managed to land Harry Potter.

Harry hung back as Hannah walked up to the receptionist and presented a few papers and was rewarded with a key. When ready, Harry stepped up and took the blonde's arm in his own, at which the receptionist eyed the happy couple once and gave them both a knowing smile. Harry let his companion into the elevator first, playing his part impeccably.

Stopping on the ninth floor, Hannah stepped out and led Harry to room 912, opening the door to a very luxurious suite. A single, king-sized bed greeted the two, which stood next to a dining table, where two figures already sat. One of the two, Harry already recognized: Walter Stark, his superior. The other appeared to be a middle-aged woman, with stylish white hair, that Harry did not recognize. He assumed she must be his MI-7 handler.

"Mister Potter," the mystery woman greeted first, "I have longed to speak with you for some time, now."

Harry found Stark's eyes, who merely nodded and motioned to one of the open seats at the square table. He turned back to glance at Hannah, whom had suddenly morphed from a ditzy, handsy date to a stern-looking military woman. Hands folded behind her back, it appeared the blonde was waiting for orders. The white-haired woman waved her hand dismissively:

"You may leave now, Elizabeth," she said, not looking up from her copy of _The London Times_ as she stirred her tea. Hannah, which Harry now realized must have been an alias, nodded stiffly and made to leave the room. Her eyes, however, met Harry's, and he could have sworn he saw a ghost of a flirtatious smile.

Of course, Harry had not realized he was staring until the woman cleared her throat. "Yes, Eliza is quite exquisite, but it is rather unbecoming to have your tongue lolling out after her like a hangdog."

Rather than blush in embarrassment, as he was prone to do in his teen years, Harry kept his face cold and strode to the open chair Stark had indicated earlier. The hotel room door closed, signaling Elizabeth had left. As soon as she did, the woman sprung to action, lifting up her copy of _The Times_ to reveal a stuffed manila folder, perhaps the file on the man he was to kill.

"Mister Potter," the woman started amiably, passing the folder to Stark, who in turn slid it over to Harry, "do you keep up with the news?"

Harry nodded, opening the file. "From time-to-time. Not as much as I should."

The woman smiled in a way that indicated she did not find anything Harry said funny. "Then I trust you should know about our rising tensions with the Eastern Bloc? Russia, Romania, even parts of Turkey?"

"Yes, I believe have taken to calling it the 'Steel Curtain', apparently even wizards begrudgingly respect Churchill," Harry replied, thumbing through the file, noting that many of the papers seemed to be invoices for weapons: muskets, canons, even some muggle-technology that seemed to have disappeared from a Russian military base in Southern Siberia. "Russians? Missing their weapons?"

"Smuggled," the MI-7 woman revealed, unsmiling, "by a Bulgarian scientist, Andrei Bukhalov, whom had been working for the Soviets happily for over two decades. Sources are to say he was a Soviet patriot, wanting to see the return of the U.S.S.R., and when the new post-collapse regime took over, we suppose he never saw eye-to-eye with the new vision of Russia. Instead, he has been shipping weapons, with the possible aid of corrupt military officials, into sneaking weapons into Bulgaria, where they would be sold to terrorist groups at market value."

"Pardon me, at the expense of sounding like an ingrate," Harry began, "but doesn't this sound like a Russian problem?"

"That is a valid question, Mister Potter, but we have reason to believe some of these weapons have fallen into the hands of a terrorist cell called _Philosophe_. Have you heard of it?"

Harry had heard _that_ name before. "Aren't they ones that botched the Karzai assassination attempt?"

"Yes, and they seem to have a personal vendetta against the American interests in the Middle East. The Americans, muggle and magical, are meeting and hoping to launch an invasion of Iraq, though we aren't terribly sure why. The Americans are claiming that Saddam Hussein and the Iraqi government are hiding evidence of nuclear weapons, though _Philosophe _have claimed they are merely going to invade for the oil. Naturally, they don't have a high opinion of the Americans, and we have a feeling that with the sudden stockpiling of weapons, we might see a terror attack on the U.S.

"If they attack, they attack with Russian weapons. And while the Russians can dispel the notion of themselves being involved with the attack, there's simply too much at stake: the trust between the two countries has been severed over the past half-century, _Philosophe_ has already come close to destroying the Statute of Secrecy with the Karzai fiasco and may blow the whole thing wide open with an undisguised terror atack, and, most importantly, we have _no_ idea how the American public will react to a _second_ attack only a year after that September 11th nightmare."

Harry stopped on a page with a description of a man, but with no face. At the top of the page was marked: 'THE BULGARIAN'. "I can see how that would be a problem. Who is 'The Bulgarian'?"

"Your mark," the MI-7 woman answered, taking a prim sip of her tea, "he is the brains behind the trafficking. We also believe he has had KGB operatives that sniffed him out killed. The only problem is, we don't know his true identity, all of the Russian operatives disappeared before we could learn of it. However, there are still many of their informants hidden throughout Varna, the port city where we believe all the weapons are being sold from. Once there, you will meet with a KGB Operative named Yuri, who will help you sniff out the correct trail. Find the Bulgarian and his men, find why he is selling weapons to _Philosophe_, and then..."

She paused to take a sip; Harry looked up from the file, eyebrow raised:

"...And then?"

The MI-7 agent pursed her lips before answering. "Terminate them. All of them."

Harry nodded:

"Done."

"After that is finished with, I want you to find a few able-bodied men and charter that ship back to Novorossiysk, Russia, where a KGB operative will meet with you in hopes to retake the weapons the Russians have lost. Will you be able to do that?"

"Varna is a port city," Harry replied, "I'm fairly sure I'll be able to find some sailors in the Magical district."

"Good," she responded, "you leave in three days. In the meantime, check your pocket." Harry complied, looking at the scrap of paper Elizabeth had put there. On it, in pencil, was a Liverpool address with the name '_Headmaster_' underneath it.

"I think you'll find all you need should you go there before your trip," said the woman.

Harry nodded once more.

* * *

_October 23, 2002  
7:05 PM_  
_221B Sir Thomas Street, Liverpool, UK_

"Bruges?" Hermione blinked uncomprehendingly, "where's that?"

Surprised that he had picked out the one city in Europe that Hermione did not recognize immediately, Harry breathed out slowly. "It's in Belgium."

"And you just want to vacation there, just like that?" She questioned, arms folded. Harry liked it when she struck that pose, it left very little to the imagination. But, rather than fantasize about he would like to attack her lips at that very moment, and the many ways it could end (some involving the bedroom, the vast majority involving rejection), Harry remembered he had a lie to tell and shrugged:

"I hear it's really beautiful this time of year."

Hermione sighed, leaning into her hip, placing one hand there and another to rake her fingers through her hair. She looked very cute when exasperated.

_Merlin,_ Harry thought, _I must be getting really lonely._

"What about Teddy?" She asked, rather suddenly.

Harry shrugged, he seemed to be doing that a lot, lately. "He wouldn't want to see me over the next week anyways."

"So, you're going to suffer in another city?" Hermione interrogated.

"I think it'll be rather therapeutic," Harry smiled, lounging on the love seat, "all the swans, and castles, and the boat rides! It'll be like living in a fairy tale. Maybe I'll meet Prince Charming. Wait... er... that doesn't sound right."

Hermione regaled him with a small smile. "You're such a child, Harry."

"You love me for it," Harry replied, smiling as well.

The honey-haired witch then regarded Harry curiously, as if this was the first time she had ever seen him. Her eyes (mocha-colored, Harry noted), roamed over every part of his face, appearing as though Hermione were trying to memorize every valley and hill of his skin. It unnerved him. Finally, Hermione tore her gaze, which had finished upon his lips, back to his eyes:

"That I do," she said in a cryptic manner.

* * *

_October 24, 2002  
10:26 AM  
4600 Strand Street, Flat 3E, Liverpool, United Kingdom  
_

Harry faced a deep, oak-colored door. A brass knocker was set on the wood, and a golden '3E' inlayed upon a placard was placed just above the knocker. Reaching out for the brass instrument, Harry rapped hard on the door thrice, a high-pitch metallic twang accompanying each heavy bang. The sound of shuffling could be heard from inside the apartment as footsteps came closer to the door, which opened to to reveal a clean-shaven man who appeared to be in his mid-fifties, clad only in boxer shorts and a terrycloth bathrobe, smiling widely at Harry:

"Ah, you must be the man!" He spoke with a deep Eastern European accent. "Come, come, I have many things you want look over for job."

He smiled again and motioned Harry into his abode, leading the black-haired Auror to the den, which was lit only by the morning light coming from two oriel windows. On the couch sat a young man, bald and, rather strangely, wearing an eyepatch. He stared into the fireplace on the far side of the den, opposite the windows, with a pensive look in his eye.

It was then that Harry's attention shifted to something much more intriguing: laid out on the coffee table were a plethora of weapons. The first weapon that caught Harry's eye was a pistol, designed like flintlock pistols during the eighteenth century. Apparently, the Eastern European man noticed the object of Harry's attention as well, as he moved up to it and began explaining:

"This is special," he crooned, holding the pistol as he would a baby, "we broke all wards surrounding pistol and added self-cleaning charm and the magical bullet enhancement."

"Magical bullet enhancement?" Harry questioned.

Instead of the Eastern European, the bald man spoke with a French accent: "It is a new design, made to keep operatives from running out of rounds by taking your magical power and forming it into bullets. So long as you have power, you can fire. The self-cleaning charm had to be applied because we are still in the process of breaking down the wards on modern firearm, which are policed far more strictly, and a regular flintlock pistol must be cleaned after every shot. Doesn't have the range or power of a modern firearm, but we've been told you should be able to use it just fine."

The Eastern Euopean nodded vigorously, allowing Harry to pick out the next weapon on the table: of them was a hatchet like weapon, a dagger, and a bracer carrying a wand holster and something metallic underneath:

"You will like this one," the Eastern European grinned as he strapped the bracer on himself, "both your wand and a blade are strapped next to each other, a flick of your wrist this way brings out your wand, a flick the other way, and—" he made a show of flicking his wrist and, much to Harry's surprise, a silvery metallic blade shot out.

Harry was suitably impressed. "How cool."

"And if you flick it again," the man was saying as he flicked his wrist to the left again. Almost immediately, the blade shot out to the side so the man could grip what appeared to be a small hilt and use it as a dagger. "Best when used in combination with the tomahawk." He pointed at the axe on the table.

"Pardon me, and I really do thank you for thinking so far ahead, but why do I need all of this?"

Eyepatch man answered instead. "Unlike Western Europe, where we're dependent on our wands, most Eastern Europeans are not quite as... how do you say—gung-ho— about magic as France or Britain. Magic is often viewed as the refuge of the weak, and is only to be used in times of dire emergency."

He must have caught Harry's confused look, so the eyepatch man explained it with an example:

"Are you familiar with the magical way of cooking?" He asked; Harry nodded, reminded of Molly Weasley's sumptuous meals. "What we regard as expedient, where a person can make an entire five-course meal at once, Eastern Europe views as laziness. Food made by hand is the mark of love, by magic it's the mark of a boor."

Harry started to understand. "Ah, so you rely on your physical and mental strength before your magical, am I right?"

"Precisely."

"That makes sense," Harry nodded, "I kind of like that."

"Most agents who go across the iron curtain seem to," the man replied. "But, we'll leave you to judge that for yourself when you get to Varna."

Harry nodded, collected the weapons, and turned to leave, but was stopped by the eyepatch man: "One more thing for you, _mon ami_," he said walking to the edge of the room where there appeared to be a cooler Harry had not noticed earlier. He strapped on a pair of latex gloves, opened the cooler and reached in. plucking something small and circular out.

"Take this," he said, walking over to Harry and placing the round object in his palm. "You never know when you might need it."

Harry surveyed the object in his hand. Small and glassy, with an electric iris, Harry found himself staring at a Mad-eye.

* * *

_October 28, 2002  
__9:14 AM  
Imperator, Mediterranean Sea  
20 miles from the coast of Sicily_

The salty air was the first thing that hit Harry's nose as he awoke. Groggy, he looked around, trying to piece together where he was. Cramped in a dark room he did not recognize as his own, Harry blinked as the song reached his ears:

_Haul on the bowline, to Bristol we are going_  
_Haul on the bowlin', the bowlin' haul!_

And, suddenly, the memories rushed back to him. He was on a merchant ship, titled the _Imperator_, that had left from the the Magical District's port in Liverpool just three days earlier. It was quite an experience, if Harry said so himself. He may have been unused to the life of sailors, but Harry was sure that magical and muggle sailors lived in two very different worlds. There were no electronics, or motors to fuel the ship's movements upon the _Imperator_, in fact, it could have been easily mistaken for a colonial period warship, sails and moorings flapping lazily in the morning sun with a whole crew of expert sailors aboard.

_Haul on the bowline, Kitty is my darlin'  
__Haul on the bowlin', the bowlin'_ _haul!_

The ship rocked on the gentle ebb and flow of the waves, the song of sailors brightening the already bright morning sky. It was not a day to be trapped below deck. Harry smiled and lifted up from his cot, his hair a deep brown and his eyes a stormy gray to ensure nobody would recognize him, moving slowly to the closet that carried his one set of combat robes, a oak-colored regimental coat with gray trim, a stitched white shirt, trousers, and knee-high doeskin boots, all enchanted to turn arrows, spells, even some small-caliber bullets. Of course, being a ship without running water, Harry had not taken a shower in all his time aboard, using _tergeo __and scourgify_ to keep himself clean instead, but he was quickly learning ship-life was not without its charms. It was nice to wake up to songs and laughing above deck.

Quickly changing into his combat robes and pulling his hood up over his head, Harry stepped out into the hull and made his way above deck where the sailors were finishing the last line of 'Haul on the Bowline'.

The full extent of the salty air hit Harry like a hammer. It felt _good_. It smelled _clean_. Sailors singing and bustling around the deck and beneath the hull, the docile rocking of the waves, and if Harry went to the forecastle, the view would be amazing: miles and miles of crisp blue sea. And with a smile, Harry felt the Mediterranean sun beating down on him. _Twenty-two degrees_, an Italian sailor had said in fractured English, and Harry appreciated it immensely. Moving to the starboard side of the deck, Harry smiled at the sea, knowing Africa was somewhere in the distance.

"Mister James!" Called out a gruff voice to Harry's right, Harry went right on observing the water when that gruff voice called out again, this time more insistent: "Henry James!"

Remembering suddenly that Henry James was Harry's alias for this little excursion, Harry immediately swiveled around and put on his most charming smile for whatever guest had beckoned him. It did not occur to him that smiling looked rather odd, considering no one could see underneath Harry's hood, but it did not matter anyway, for the man who had called seemed to be quite sour:

"Ye'll be at yer' city in two days, we hav'ta stop in Naples" he announced, looking surly, "and the cap'n wants t'see ya'." before turning heel and lurching away.

_Pleasant fellow_, Harry thought, amused. As the dour sailor had been heading in the direction of the captain's cabin, Harry followed, but whereas the sailor headed down below deck, Harry passed by the mizzenmast and the stairs leading downward and instead opted for another flight of stairs leading to the sterncastle, passing by a sailor who nodded and bade Harry good morning. At the far end of the sterncastle was the captain's cabin, which was nestled underneath the poop deck, punctuated by an ornately decorated oak door with what appeared to be golden vines and a number _fleur-de-lis_ symbols carved into the edges of the wood. Much like the door itself, the knob appeared to also be made of gold, or, at the very least, very well-maintained brass.

It almost seemed a sin to touch a door so intricately made, which led Harry to wonder as to why it was on a privateer's ship, but as he could hazard no realistic guesses (the only guess being that the captain ran a pirate vessel, which was just idiotic considering the nature of Harry's need to travel), Harry merely shrugged to himself and headed inside.

"Close the door," was the gruff that met Harry's entrance. Harry complied, closing the door and turning back to look at the captain: a pale but well-groomed man with inky black hair, a moustache, and beard scruff that had grown over the past few days the men had been aboard. "I am Captain Luca Rossi. Sit down, Agent."

Alarmed at what the man had called him, the spring-loaded blade that had been affixed to Harry's bracer sprung out and swiveled on its axis for Harry to be able to wield it properly. The noise from this, as quiet as it was, still alerted the Captain:

"Now, now, there's no need for that. Though I must I say I commend your vigilance. Had I had less than noble intentions, I might not have found my way out of this room. Of course, you'd then have to deal with my men, but that's neither here nor there—"

"—What is it that you want?" Harry interrogated, not willing to put up with this man rambling.

The Captain allowed a slow smile to graze his pug-shaped face: "Do you really think your employers would be able to smuggle you out of England if they did not make a few privateer friends? And did you honestly think I don't know what you're after, since you're dropping off in Varna? Now, you can either spend weeks getting nowhere, or you can look up some friends who might know what's going on in the city—"

"—I already have friends in the city," Harry began, turning to leave when the Captain called out again:

"You mean the KGB?" That stopped Harry dead in his tracks:

"How did you—?"

"Strung up by the Bulgarian Cartel. Blindsided yesterday. Deader than doornails. London and Moscow are still reeling from the loss. I was instructed to tell you who you could possibly meet up with instead. But, you know, the government can't exactly _force _you to help them, and I would be _more_ than willing to help, except..."

Harry raised an eyebrow, though he was quite aware the Captain could not see it underneath the hood. "...Except?" He repeated, trying very hard to keep the mocking scorn he felt for this man out of his voice. This presented trouble, if KGB Operatives were killed, then he would have to be extremely careful if he wanted to get back to Liverpool, Hermione, Ron, and Teddy in one piece.

The Captain walked to the front of his desk, leaning on it so he was half-sitting, half-standing. "You scratch my back, and I'll scratch yours."

"If you're propositioning me I'd like to assure you that I don't swing that way."

"Neither do I," chuckled the Captain, raising up his left hand, whereupon his ring finger was pushed through an engraved wedding band. "Quite unhappily married. Though I believe that fiasco will be over soon; my bitch of a wife is filing in the divorce papers as we speak. What I need help with would be more... _ahem_... suited to your specific _talents_."

Harry snorted. "And those would be?"

"Don't play coy, I need your help with a wart on the face of humanity that resides upon this ship."

"And who is this?"

"Donald Cairn," The Captain replied, all traces of humor gone from his face, "one of my sailors. I believe he's been planning to kill me."

"And why is that? To wrest control of the ship from you?"

The Captain let out a booming laugh. "Why, Agent, what do you think this is, the eighteenth century? They may call me a privateer, but the name does not carry the same weight it did in the muggle world: I am still the government's little bitch through and through—" his voice became a little hard, a little bitter, at that, "—the ship would be quarantined at the next stop and a new Captain would be chosen by our friends higher above. No, he likely wants to kill me for another reason."

"And what reason is that?"

The Captain looked both sheepish and unapologetic at the same time: "It might have something to do with his wife's infidelity."

Harry cottoned on quick, flashing the Captain a look of loathing:

"I'm settling the cock-fight between two men over a bleeding _woman_?" He asked, a dignified sort of anger melding into his normal sarcastic drawl.

"You keep me safe, you get the information," The Captain shrugged. Harry already found himself hating this man, but knew that any information he provided might be invaluable:

"Okay, I'll guard you," Harry acquiesced, "as long as you direct me to a person to speak to."

"Guard me? Guard me?" The Captain looked amused. "And what happens after you leave? He'll be free to attack me then. No, no, _no_! I want your word, _your word_, that Cairn is dead and somewhere in the Mediterranean by the time we land in Varna!"

"You want me to kill him because _you_ shagged his wife," Harry deadpanned.

The Captain sneered. "I may be working for angels, doesn't mean I am one."

"This is insane," Harry shook his head, "and _wrong_."

"Do you want the information or not?"

Harry growled. He did need that information. But he did not want to kill an innocent man for it.

"Well?" The Captain asked once more, this time seeming to be less patient.

"And if our friends higher above learn of your reticence to supply me with information?" Harry tried blackmail as his last resort.

"You see, the way I sees it is that if you don't help me, one of two things happens: either Cairn kills me or the government imprisons me upon my return to the Isles for not complying with their orders. Fair enough, I think, Barathrum is a cakewalk if you know how to procure things. On the other hand, you could do what I ask and we'd both have a much easier time over the next few days."

It was a shite situation, Harry knew, but he would have to make it work. Besides, he would have to kill more than his fair share of men in a few days. If he did not get anywhere in finding The Bulgarian because of his unwillingness to kill, it might reflect poorly upon him. Murder should come as second nature to him, and with a bit of shudder, Harry realized it _did_ come naturally to him. So there really was only one choice:

Harry would do it, but he did not have to like it:

"Fine," he spat.

"That's my man," The Captain grinned widely, "Cairn is a blond man with a stupid-looking face. Probably getting brekkers with other galley rats below deck. Come back to me when it's finished."

"That's it? A stupid-looking man with blond hair?"

"Did you expect me to _study_ him?" The Captain said with a sneer reminiscent of the late Severus Snape, "Tracking and murdering people is _your_ special talent, not mine. I suggest you _use_ that talent rather than blubbering about how I don't spend all day staring at my men."

Harry had never wanted to punch a man in the face more than right now, which was saying something, considering he spent the better part of his first two decades on earth with Vernon Dursley:

"Look, I'm not asking for world, you stupid bastard; I'm asking for a _bit_ of competence," Harry ground out.

"That's what you're here for," The Captain drawled in kind.

Harry grunted, heading back for the intricately designed door, which he wrenched open and slammed behind him. The salty sea air once again bombarded Harry's senses. If he was going to be off the ship tomorrow afternoon, the best time to kill Cairn would be later in the night. He would have to be discreet about it, too, keeping from asking too much about Cairn and his whereabouts at all hours of the night. Harry would instead have to find Cairn and keep aware of him like a bloodhound at all times.

Stepping down onto the main deck, Harry heard the unmistakable cry of 'Meal Time!' from somewhere below deck. A cheer went up through the sailormen as they grabbed their food and proceeded to scarf it down, only a skeleton crew left to maintain the ship's course. Heading below deck, Harry acquired his own portions of bread, salted beef and pork, and, strangely enough, a mug of beer. Regarding the beer with a curious expression, and checking his watch for the time, Harry set the mug down. A sailor stared at his antics, amused:

"Drink up, that's all the beer you'll get today," he smiled.

Harry snorted. "And what of water?"

"Not during meal time, mate."

"Ah," was Harry's drawled response as he bit off a piece of the salted beef, taking his time to chew the tough meat. After swallowing the first bite, Harry decided it would be a good time to start looking for Donald Cairn.

It was a trick Granath had taught Harry when he was taken under the elder man's tutelage. Much like Occlumency, Harry had to clear his mind of all external thoughts, of the incoming shakes and pressure of detoxifying, of his confused feelings for Hermione, of his self-inflicted estrangement from the Weasley family, and simply _focus_. Harry focused on the sound of the waves, of the gulls, of the sailors laughing and gamboling around. Suddenly, Harry's senses sharpened, able to decipher through the mass quantities of conversations below deck and focus on the one person he wanted to hear from.

It did not take long to suss him out:

"Don, will you slow down?" Asked a chipper brown-haired man at the opposite end of the meager mess hall, "The food isn't goin' anywhere."

A blond man, who did not look all that stupid looked up from the pork he had been scarfing down. "I dunno, Lee, there seems somethin' off 'bout this here run. Like something bad's brewing. Dunno what, though."

_Smarter than the good captain thinks he is, _Harry mused idly, keeping his hood drawn low, _but why's Cairn worried if he plans to kill Rossi?_

"That mean you gotta eat for six?" Lee, the brown-haired one teased lightly.

"Sod off," was Cairn's reply.

This would be simple enough, Harry knew, he would merely have to shadow Cairn until nightfall and strike when he was alone in the bowels of the ship.

That time came sooner than Harry expected. Having spent the most of the day playing chess with a fellow enthusiast in the mess, Harry was delighted upon hearing Captain Rossi assign Cairn to the foremast for graveyard shift. It would make his job that much easier. And as night fell, Harry made his way to the forecastle, which was deserted late at night, except for Cairn, who looked rather miserable as he caught sight of the disguised Auror:

"Hey, mate," he called, "the weather looks like shite for tonight, you'd best be getting below the gun deck 'afore the gods really get pissed an' we havta man the lifeboats!"

Harry waved his hand dismissively. "I can handle myself in a rain storm."

Cairn took one look at the muscular, hooded man in front of him and then shrugged, apparently satisfied with his assessment. "Aye, that you can," he paused in his work with the sails and plopped down on the wooden railing of the forecastle, "You're the traveller who's getting off in Albania, ain't ya? What's bringing you from the Dover Straits to Krum-land?"

"Krum-land?" Harry asked, amused.

Cairn shrugged again. "Yeah, ever since Viktor Krum decided to quit playing and start managing the national team, the bloody bastards have been on a tear! They came really, really close this year, but those Spaniards are too good. But they're getting old as well, don't think they have it in them to win it again. I'm telling ya', 2006 is Bulgaria's time to be champs."

Harry chuckled. "Come on, have a little bit of faith in your home country! England can't be all that bad."

"No, no, of course not," Cairn nodded vigorously, "our Chasers and Beaters are top notch but our seeker, well she wouldn't be able to catch a snitch if it blindsided her and slipped up her arse."

"Chang's decent," Harry defended, "Not the best, but decent, at least."

"Nah, mate, it's a bloody shame that Diggory fellow bit it. He'd have been a truly spectacular seeker for us," Cairn smiled and rested his chin on his hands, "or the bleeding Boy-Who-Lived. I got to see him play a game once, you know. Potter was the biggest madhatter you'd ever seen. But he was good. Really good. But it was never to be, I was meant to go another way, don't ya' think?"

"Who? Harry Potter?" Harry asked quietly, "I'll agree he was as mad as a hatter. Don't think he'd ever truly given thought to going professional, though, you know what I mean?"

"Yeah, I know," Cairn sighed wistfully, perhaps thinking of a national team with Harry on it. "But I digress, what brings you out this way."

"Vacation," Harry answered automatically, at which point the sailor gave him a dubious look:

"With all those?" He asked, pointing at the sword and tomahawk Harry carried.

Harry laughed. "Bit of a monster hunter," he recovered, "the axe is silver-tipped, good for taking out werewolves. Only problem is, you have to get a bit close."

"I'll say!" Cairn whistled low, "I think I'd stick to raising and lowering sails, friendo."

Harry nodded. "Different strokes, I guess."

With that, a silence descended upon the two as they both looked out over the waves. The sea was calm, moon luminous, the sky dark, lit up only by a million twinkling stars. Harry thought with some amusement that this would be the perfect night for a date, but he had more pressing matters to attend to, and Donald Cairn was one of them. He felt sort of bad for the old boy: wife cheats on him, and because of it he gets the axe. Literally.

But, now was Harry's only chance. They were away from the rest of the crew, and Cairn was completely unaware of the danger in store for him. Harry's hand slowly descended, groping for the tomahawk, and just as he got his hand around the handle, a voice rang out:

"Don, yer shift's bein' relieved!"

Both Harry and Cairn whipped around to see the brown-haired man that had been speaking to Cairn over breakfast calling him over.

"On whose order?" Cairn questioned.

"First Mate's," was the reply. Cairn nodded and started to head back, before lurching to a stop, turning, and observing Harry for a moment. and extending his hand outward:

"Thank you for your company, Mister-?" He stopped, waiting for Harry to introduce himself.

"James," Harry blurted out faster than he intended, "Henry James," Harry mentally kicked himself for being overeager, but sometimes his mouth worked faster than his mind.

If Cairn realized it was an alias, he did not show any acknowledgement of it, and instead took Harry's hand: "Well, Mister James, I hope I'll see you again before we make dock, eh?"

"As do I," Harry shook the other man's hand, before the sailor turned and walked back toward the man who had called him once they were gone, did Harry turn back to the sea as he loudly swore.

* * *

October 29, 2002  
10:15 AM  
Offices of the Old Irish Metre - Homicide Division  
Office of DSI William Granath

Hermione waited outside William Granath's office with a mixture of trepidation and excitement. She did not know the DSI all that well, having only met him through Harry and Ron, though it was plainly obvious to her that Harry was closer to the grizzled Auror than her boyfriend. She was to take a pre-training psychological evaluation with a DCI and a Healer. When she had learned about this practice a month prior, Hermione had asked both Ron and Harry why they had to use an actual Auror rather than just a Healer trained in psychiatry. Ron had simply said that was the way things were and Harry (though he often was the Auror to be in these kinds of situations) was equally out of the loop, stating that the Aurors, while formidable, were a truly backwards lot. However, since Harry was relegated to the NIM and Hermione had expressed an interest in working the Homicide Division, it would be the DSI that would evaluate her.

But, now, sitting here, she wished she had either of her two friends to reassure her. But Ron was swamped on his cases and was working out in the field at the moment while Harry had shipped off to some godforsaken medieval town in Belgium for reasons unbeknownst to her. Truthfully, Hermione did not understand why she felt so angry at Harry, but in the three days since he had just dropped everything and left (and with Ron only available for short lunch breaks), the Auror-hopeful found herself returning to her empty apartment with nothing to do but gulp down potions every night.

Honestly, she had never thought she would miss Harry and Ron's company that much.

"Miss Granger?" A plain-looking woman in a drab suit asked.

"Yes?" Hermione asked politely.

The plain-looking secretary smiled warmly. "They're ready for you."

Trying to quell the pit that had suddenly formed in her stomach, Hermione nodded her thanks, momentarily unable to speak. Standing up, the honey-haired woman stepped through a door that the secretary had opened and found herself staring down two people, a man and a woman. She knew the man to be DSI Granath, having seen him enough at Ministry functions, but the woman, even though she must have worked at St. Mungo's (given that there was no other wizarding hospital), was absolutely unrecognizable.

Granath stood up to shake Hermione's hand, she complied and gave a strong grip of her own:

"Apologies for making you wait, Miss Granger," Granath said smoothly, offering her a seat, "but I haven't done psych evaluations in some time. Usually that's a job for our DCI, but as you already know, we're in a bit of a... transitional period."

"Oh, it's no trouble, DSI," Hermione replied, smiling.

The healer, a pretty blonde, smiled a smile that did not reach her eyes. "Hello, Miss Granger, I am Healer Rosa Dalmaska. DSI Granath and I will be the ones evaluating you this evening."

"I understand," Hermione responded quickly, her heart starting to race. What if she came off as too excitable, too nervous? What if they decided she was too unstable to join the Aurors? As soon as that thought hit, however, Hermione calmed: if they did not kick out Harry on the basis of mental instability and depression, the surely would not kick her out.

But, Harry was the bloody Boy-Who-Lived! Hermione was just the bookish girlfriend of his best friend.

Hermione soon became so preoccupied in her thoughts that she nearly missed what the DSI said next:

"I think we'll start with the easy stuff, Miss Granger," Granath began, smiling in a way that put the Healer at ease, "Does that sound okay to you?"

Hermione nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She willed herself to look away from the two perpetrators of her impending doom and at Granath's Office. It was sparsely decorated, only with a few pictures here and there, but on the side of the room adjacent to her, Hermione noticed something rather odd: a large yellow flag featuring a snake coiled up and ready to fight. Underneath it were the words "Don't Tread on Me". Granath apparently took notice of what Hermione had been gazing at and coughed:

"I've always been a bit interested in the American Revolutionary War. Ever since I took a post for a few years stateside. That gaudy thing was a going away present from a friend of mine in Chicago. Good bloke, went by the name of Dresden. I thought it was quite catchy though, embodies a natural spirit I can't quite explain."

The Healer, Hlr. Dalmaska, decided that they had spent enough time gawking at Granath's flag and quietly hemmed for the attention of the two:

"Not to be rude," she said in a somewhat bored tone, "but we should be getting on with this, should we not?" DSI Granath, who looked like he was quite ready to tell Hermione all about the flag, swallowed his words and turned his gaze toward Hermione, non-verbally asking her whether or not she wished to continue. Hermione nodded, eager to please, eager to prove her fears wrong.

Turning back to Hermione, the elder Healer spoke once more:

"Now, Miss Granger, you work as a Healer at St. Mungo's, do you not?" She asked, never looking up from the file. Hermione immediately felt a bit uncomfortable with the woman; while DSI Granath at least maintained an air of politeness, there was a tone of detached indifference from the blond woman.

Hermione, however, steeled herself and responded with a "Yes, ma'am," that made her sound much braver than she felt.

"And what exactly does your work entail there?" Granath picked up the line of questioning.

"I... well, I work for the MICU - that's the Intensive Care Unit - I usually work on-"

"Yes, we know what the MICU is," Dalmaska waved away the brunette's explanation, "And working as a MICU Healer has led you to consider a career as a Homicide Auror?"

Hermione grimaced in response, as if to say 'that's not all': "It is one of many reasons, though I suppose one reason must still be a reason," she concluded, Granath chuckled and Dalmaska gave Hermione a slightly patronizing smile that the younger healer would have found insulting had the elder not held so much power over her future.

"And do any of these 'other reasons' have to do with your relationship with either DS Weasley or DCI Potter?"

Hermione felt that this line of questioning was a mite inappropriate and sent a questioning look to the DSI, who remained impassive, as if he wanted to hear what her answer was as well. She had no option but to be truthful:

"Yes," Hermione began, "I am in a relationship with DS Weasley and DCI Potter is one of my best friends, but that wouldn't affect my performance nor are they major factors behind my willingness to join the Auror Corps. Besides, DS Weasley and I would be equal in rank, and a romantic relationship among Aurors of equal rank are not discouraged according the Auror Handbook, and DCI Potter currently works at your Liverpool Branch as a Narcotics Auror, we likely would not even work together."

Granath looked pleased, and Hermione took that as a sign to mean she had answered well.

"Very well," Hlr. Dalmaska also gave her a slightly pleased look, "our medical files have had you undergoing extensive treatment for prolonged curse exposure, though we have received word from St. Mungo's as well as our own Healers that you are well. However, could please tell us what treatment you underwent, so we can cover all our bases."

"Of course," responded Hermione with a bit of trepidation, "I used to take Kiara Potion for a curse I received when I was sixteen years old, and have taken the Inquisitor Potion for the last four years, though by the end of December, I will no longer have to take the potion."

"The Inquisitor Potion is to counter the physical trauma associated with prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus Curse, yes?" Granath posed; Hermione was about to answer in the affirmative when the blonde healer took over for her:

"The Inquisitor Potion prevents nervous relapses into a cruciatic state," Hlr. Dalmaska turned to the middle-aged Auror, "we call them _Neural Shocks_, where the nervous system hasn't completely recovered from the effects of Cruciatus, and - particularly in times of great stress - will relapse into a miniature Cruciatic fit similar to an epileptic fit. The only real cure to the illness is time, which eventually returns the body to homeostasis."

"So," Granath began, trying to understand, "it's like an echo of the curse they originally felt? Extreme pain, paralysis, and the general effects of a Cruciatus?"

Hermione nodded. "I had to take the potion daily at one point, or I would be guaranteed to have Neural Shock. Now, I take it once every two weeks, and I don't display the irregular brain waves that I did when I first received the condition."

"Multiple Healers have confirmed that she is no longer 'with illness'," Hlr. Dalmaska confirmed, rifling through more medical files.

Granath nodded a few times, appearing to mull over a question. "Just one more question on this subject, Miss Granger: do either DS Weasley or DCI Potter know you had this condition?"

Hermione blanched. She had never told either what had happened to her. "Umm... well... no."

"And why didn't you tell them?"

"I didn't... I didn't want to worry Ron—DS Weasley," she began, "and Harry, Harry—DCI Potter—thinks it's his own fault whenever someone else gets hurt. I didn't want him to blame himself."

Granath again looked like he was mulling over the information, and before long, he opened another file and spoke again: "Thank you, Miss Granger. I'd like to do some word association, now, if that's alright with you."

Hermione let out a breath she had not known she had been holding, and nodded, smiling. Maybe this interview would not be as bad as she thought.

* * *

October 29, 2002  
10:30 AM GMT  
_Imperator - Port of Naples (Magic Sector)_  
Naples, Italy

The next morning, _The Imperator_ had docked at a magical section of the Port of Naples, leaving many of the sailors a short shore leave. Whoops and hollers of joy surrounded Harry as he stared at the impressive seaside city before him, the mountains looming in the distance. Soon, however, most of the sailors departed the ship, leaving Harry quite alone on the main deck. He paused to take in the warm Mediterranean air. It was easy to be fooled by the seemingly endless driech days of England and Scotland during the winter and forget that there were so many different climates.

Italy, Harry allowed himself to daydream, would not be such a bad place to live. Beautiful architecture, beautiful women, beautiful weather. Not a bad place at all.

But Harry's reveries was not to stand for much longer. He became dully aware someone was calling his name (that is, Mr. James), and blinked, coming face-to-face with the square jaw of Captain Luca Rossi.

He did not look happy:

"Why, pray tell, Mister James," he began with a mockingly inquisitive tone, "is our mutual friend still of this world?"

More angry at having been ripped from his dream of Italy than at the Captain's line of questioning, he replied, with more force than he might have without having been interrupted: "Don't ask me; I was about to do it when Cairn was called back in from the foremast by your first mate. A word of advice: if you want a man dead, do take more of an active interest in role assignment."

But the Captain's face had appeared to pale at the mention of his first mate. "M-my first mate?"

"Yes. Your first mate," Harry replied, not understanding why that tidbit of information was so important, but Rossi's normally tan face seemed to turn the color of chalk after that. For a few moments, he appeared to be speechless, before whipping around to secure hold of the ship railing:

"Fucking hell!" Rossi growled at no one in particular.

"Something tells me this information displeases you," Harry drawled.

"You're bloody _fucking_ right, it displeases me!" The Captain growled once more, sounding like an angry jungle cat. "My first mate is a bitch of a woman that goes by the name Samantha Mason. The bloody bint has had it in for me for years."

"And why's that?" Harry asked disinterestedly. "Sexual Harrassment charges?"

Rossi sneered. "Ha, ha, you're a right fucking comedian, you know that? Little fucking _twat_."

"Alright, alright, no need to get testy," Harry mock-grimaced, "why so serious? What's the problem with your first mate?"

"She's a bitch," Rossi spat; Harry was not amused:

"We already established she's a bitch. Can you give me something more substantial than that?"

The Captain gave Harry a testy look, before looking down and letting out a long-suffering sigh. "Come on. Let's go into town; I'll tell you the whole sad tale over a drink. _Napoli_ makes some of the best wines, and there's a good place not too far from here."

Harry merely nodded and followed Rossi as he stepped down the gangplank and onto the cobbled stone pier as the odd couple made their way to the nearest pub.

* * *

10:45 AM GMT  
Offices of the Old Irish Metre  
Serious Crimes Unit  
London, UK

Hermione stumbled out of Granath's office, completely unsure as to whether she had done spectacularly or failed miserably. Harry and Ron both always told her that it was her neurotic nature acting up, and that she had probably done swimmingly, but Hermione did not feel so sure. Dwelling on some of the stupid missteps she made in the interview, Hermione did not even notice when she bumped into a lanky, tall, familiar figure. Looking up, Hermione found herself staring at Ron, who gave her an easy smile. Off to the side, stood a mildly amused Draco Malfoy:

"Little preoccupied, are we?" He drawled with a superior smirk that oddly reminded Hermione of Harry when he teased her. She did not like that, feeling that even comparing an expression of Malfoy's to Harry's was verging on sacrilege.

Hermione, however, chose not to rise to the bait. "Very. How's Daphne?" She asked politely, having met Daphne at one of the Auror pub nights Harry had dragged her to up Merseyside. The woman had a mouth on her that was only matched by her skills with a wand, but Hermione could tell instantly she had found something of a kindred spirit in the regal brunette. She very much liked talking to the Auror.

"No different than when we last met," Draco shrugged, surprising Hermione with his civility. "Which means she's still aspiring to be an American, stuck with those Scousers, curses enough to make a sailor blush and won't admit she's got the hots for Potter."

Something in Hermione's chest froze at that. Normally, she was quite supportive of Harry having relationships, but suddenly Hermione felt her stomach turn as her mind subjected her to a plethora of pictures she would have rather not seen: Daphne and Harry snogging on the couch in his living room (where only a week earlier Hermione and Teddy had forced the raven-haired Auror to watch _Aladdin_ with them), Daphne straddling Harry around the waist, and Harry flashed her a smile—a genuine Harry-smile, which had become all too rare—before sneaking his hand down the waistband of her jeans.

Suddenly, Hermione was furious, not only at Daphne, but at Harry as well. She should not be doing _that_ with him! And he should know better than dating women like that!

But why was she so angry?

Quashing her sudden homicidal desire to hunt Greengrass down, which confused Hermione just as much as it enraged her, and plastered on a patently false smile as she continued to engage her former enemy in small talk:

"Is she really?" The honey-brunette asked sweetly, sounding a lot less acidic than she felt. She unconsciously moved away from Ron's side, who was now engaged with Neville in a conversation about a case file, one Ron had mentioned a week earlier at The Burrow.

A dinner Harry had missed.

"Wouldn't know," said Draco, the epitome of apathetic, but it was enough to distract Hermione from her thoughts. "But, take it from the guy who got shot down no less than twelve times by her, I will say that it does take a lot to get Daphne interested. And while I'm content to believe that Daphne and Tracey Davis are rug-munching on each other, Potter's definitely done something to get her intrigued."

There was a lull in the conversation, as well as in the chatter next to the two former enemies; Hermione glanced off to her side, seeing both Neville and Ron staring at Draco. Whilst Neville looked somewhat mortified, Ron took on a contemplative look—which, being that it was _Ron_, was an expression akin to being poleaxed—and suddenly, the redhead slipped near into a state of catatonia. Knowing what Draco's last sentence started with, Hermione knew _exactly_ what was going on in her boyfriend's filthy mind.

As disgusted as she should have been with Ron imagining Greengrass and Davis going at the horizontal mambo, Hermione could only bring herself to be somewhat amused. For some reason, she couldn't muster up the vitriol needed to lash out at Ron, and, with a start, Hermione realized it was because she was still _furious_ (for reasons unknown to her) with Daphne.

And Harry as well.

What the hell was wrong with her? Sure Daphne was crass, but she had never been anything but nice to Hermione. Why did she suddenly want to maul the Auror? And why the _hell_ was she angry with Harry? He had the right to be with whomever he liked!

And suddenly, like a cancerous growth, an unbidden answer bubbled up at the base of her skull:

_Because I want it to be me on that couch with him._

And with widening eyes, and mental pictures of snogging Harry with his hands slipping inside the waistband of _her _jeans instead of Daphne's, Hermione realized she was in trouble.

* * *

11:01 AM GMT  
Inn  
Naples, Italy

Captain Rossi swilled his wine and looked morosely at the dark red liquid as Harry tried to grasp the latest revelation in Luca Rossi's sad tales of of being a sea man:

"So, let me get this straight," Harry started, taking a large gulp of his Guinness (Seamus had corrupted him). "You and Miss Mason had a fling—"

"—it was more than a fling," The Captain interjected without much gusto.

Harry shrugged and doffed off a little bit more of his drink. "Okay, so you and Mason had a 'more than a fling' around twelve years ago and you found out she was preggers?"

"Long story short, yeah," Rossi replied.

"But you wanted to get married," Harry continued, finding this entire crockpot story a little too hard to believe considering what he knew about The Captain.

"Yes, indeed," Rossi, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "Is it really only morning?" He asked idly, to no one in particular. "This was before I even met my current wife, so I wasn't tied down or anything, and I was 25. I spent seven years sailing from port-to-port before, and I thought maybe I was ready for a family."

"But?" Harry questioned.

"But, we didn't exactly see eye-to-eye. See, Sam's always had a bit of an independent streak in her. She didn't want to stop being a sailor, not for a kid, and not so she could be 'my housewife'—her words, not mine. So, since the choice of marriage was out the window, and looked like raising the child was too, unless we wanted the kid to grow up on a ship, we decided we'd ship the baby off to a barren wizarding couple once it was born. Easy, right?"

Harry nodded.

"Wrong," replied the other man. "Not easy at all when you see the baby in front of you for the first time. To this day, that girl was the bleedin' prettiest thing I'd ever seen. So I say to Sam: 'Give me the baby, I'll take care of her', but apparently Sam doubts my _moral character_—"

"—Not without reason," Harry quipped.

"Sod off, James," The Captain said in a somewhat agreeable mood, which was quite different and quite preferable than the taskmaster he had witnessed aboard the _Imperator_, "and she runs off and gives the damn baby away 'afore I can see her again. And she doesn't give the baby to magic couple, nah. She stays at the hospital long enough to name the little girl, then goes and takes her right to the doorstep of a muggle couple in Dover and leaves the baby there until the husband scooped her out of her carriage and took her in. Apparently, Sam had heard the Harry Potter stories and became enamored with the fairy-tale novelty of leaving a baby on a doorstep... or, _something_ like that. Tried to find the family, but when I finally was able to track the house down a year later, I had found the family moved to London. And, well... London's a _big_ city."

"So she betrays your trust and gives the baby to a muggle family. Why are you still working with her?"

"Hey, once in love, always in love, y'know?"

Harry shrugged. "I wouldn't."

"Yeah," Rossi agreed. "Wouldn't expect you MI-7 types to understand. All you guys know is war. Haven't got a time for love or family, right?"

Harry fixed the Captain a wry smile, but he felt a twinge of _something_—pain, discomfort?—in his stomach and a mental image of Hermione at that. "Yeah, something like that." He took an extra large gulp of his pint.

"But I was thinking... there can't be many muggleborns that go to Hogwarts each year. And since the my daughter's birthday was around eleven years ago, whose to say she wasn't killed by that sick wanker that was terrorizing London? _He_ obviously wouldn't know that she was born to magicals."

Harry shrugged. It was possible, but he'd have to see this Mason woman before judging whether or not one of the dead girls was theirs. "It's a possibility. But, who knows, maybe she was one of the lucky ones."

"Look, look," Rossi replied, "enough about my troubles, we have enough already. If Sam was calling in men just as you were about to kill them, it means that she knows what we're up to. Ergo, she knows who you are. And that, my friend, spells trouble for the both of us. You don't need to attract attention before Varna and I'd really like to keep in MI-7's good graces. So, here's what you do, you find her and tell her I'll back off of Cairn if she keeps her mouth shut about you and keeps the crew happy and coup-free."

"What about the information you were going to give me for killing Cairn?"

"Well," Rossi smiled, "you're still going to have to work for it. But it won't be so bad as murder. You're going to be getting a name from her."

"A name?"

Rossi nodded. "Our daughter's name."

* * *

11:30 AM GMT  
Irola Towers - Room 311  
Liverpool, UK

Daphne yawned, taking haphazard pictures alongside Seamus. The Irishman's attention was turned from Dennis, who had just entered a seemingly empty storeroom at the back of the complex, to the brunette valkyrie occupying the space beside him:

"Do you ever get enough sleep?" Seamus asked, looking somewhat amazed.

Daphne shrugged sleepily. "Invited over a cheeky Scouser last night. Hell of a workout. So, no. Didn't get much sleep."

Seamus chuckled. "Oh, the joys of being an attractive woman," he drawled. "Of course, even if I were a woman, I still don't think I'd be much interested in blokes." Daphne peaked open one eye:

"You're just saying that because you're a bloke," she explained, "from my perspective, I don't know how I'd like girls if I were suddenly turned into a man for the rest of my life, but if I had been born one, I'd see things the way you do."

"Perhaps," replied Seamus.

"Besides," Daphne continued, a cheeky grin on her face that Seamus had only ever seen her give Harry. "Girls are overrated."

"Oh?" Asked Seamus. "Speaking from experience?"

Daphne merely gave him a mysterious smile and started taking pictures of hand-to-hands once more.

"Oh, come on," the Irishman whined, "you can't tell me something like that and just leave me fucking hanging!"

"Apparently I can," said the regal brunette.

"You'd tell Harry," Seamus accused, hating how he sounded like a petulant child when he said that.

Daphne paused a moment, as if thinking about Harry, and then that mysterious smile returned to her lips. "Probably. He has a tendency to keep secrets very well. You, on the other hand, do not."

Before Seamus could protest, a small black radio off to the side, sitting atop an overturned crate box crackled to life: "Greengrass? Finnigan? Come in?" Dennis' voice came through the static. Daphne stood up, stretching to her full, lithe stature, and sauntered over to the radio.

"What's up?" She asked, not bothering to even act formal.

Dennis' reply was almost breathless. "You won't believe what I just found."

"What was it," Seamus started. "Is it good enough to convince Dean?"

"Merlin, if Thomas or Potter saw this, they'd shit bricks," Dennis whispered, a hint of exhilaration in his voice. "It's an Auror's wet dream!"

"Well, don't fucking keep us waiting," Daphne said, impatient.

"Weapons, Greengrass," Seamus could practically _hear_ Dennis' grin. "Out in that safehouse they've been going in and out of the past few days. From _Bulgaria_. It's what D'Arcy must be here for. Muskets, cursed swords, exploding potions, hell, even some Muggle Tech here, and overcored wands, too."

"An Overcored Wand?" Seamus asked, perplexed.

"Wands with dual cores bound together through Dark Magic," Daphne replied. "We've been seeing a lot of these lately. They're good for weak wizards to hold up against regular ones, but put it in a capable wizard or witch's hands, and they're beyond deadly. Usually, they're really hard to find this side of the Steel Curtain. Don't worry about what they are. Worry that they're out there."

"I'm getting out of here. We'll talk back at HQ in ten."

Seamus looked at Daphne. "Ready to get out of here?"

"I thought you'd never ask," the brunette grinned as they glamoured themselves and proceeded back towards the NIM.

* * *

11:30 AM GMT  
The Burrow  
Ottery St. Catchpole, UK

Hermione felt sluggish in her chair, if only because her confused emotional state was currently giving her the migraine of a lifetime. Ron, whom had been working overtime that week to get the night off asked if Hermione had wanted to go to The Burrow for lunch, and deciding she could not want anything more than some of Molly Weasley's cooking, she acquiesced. Ron and George were outside enjoying a drink and talking about whatever it was they spoke of. Ginny, who was coming soon, would be there to keep Hermione company and steer her clear of her current thoughts.

Harry. Bloody Harry. Hundreds of miles away, the man in question did not even know what he was doing to her. She hated that.

Now that she thought about it, Hermione could see why she was thinking the way she was. Over the past few months, ever since that damned Bulstrom Case, she had been spending less time with Ron, who had taken on double-shifts at the OIM and spent an entire month away overseeing an American conflict. Ron, a constant even when Harry disappeared, became variable, available for a few short hours, then away for days, sometimes weeks. Conversely, the normally absent Harry was always around. An ear was always there to talk to, an extra pair of hands were available to help with Teddy, an exceptionally handsome face to keep her company.

And that bloody night a few weeks earlier when Harry had completely caught Hermione off guard.

_"...There's this moment when it becomes sickeningly clear to you that you have nothing left to live for. When the person you love most is gone forever. And there's _nothing _you can do about it." _

_Harry had never told her this before. Despite the righteous indignation she had felt when he insinuated the war had not left its own scars on her, Hermione felt they paled in comparison to Harry's own scar tissue. Slowly, the anger faded, and only a desire to comfort her best friend was left behind._

_"I went after him, only to be held back from jumping into the veil myself," Harry said. "It's that very moment, you yourself want to die as well. That your life will never be the same, that you'll only live half a life, that you'd be better off dead. No hope left, just _despair_._

_"That moment _changes _you. George has never been the same since Fred died, and Ron... well, I think he literally felt it at Malfoy Manor when you were being tortured. I did too. You did not experience that, and that's why you can't imagine why Ron wouldn't want you to do this."_

_Hermione stood rooted to the spot, her arms slightly akimbo from her earlier outburst. Harry had never been quite so eloquent, though no one had ever been through quite as much pain as he. Perhaps he was able to distill pain into such short, powerful statements because pain was always a powerful reminder of his past. Hell, who was she kidding? Pain was as much a part of Harry's present and future as it was his past._

_So entrenched in her thoughts and Harry's revelation was Hermione that she took no notice of her friend apologizing and inspecting her arm. His fingers lightly grazed the scar she had endured for him, and that scar, which had so long been a reminder of her torture and shame became, for just one fraction of a second, something more. Ron had always ignored her scar, thinking that by keeping it out of sight, she would know he did not care what marks were on her. But the way Harry gazed at it, so reverently, as if he would like nothing better than to kiss it, caused this supposed symbol of shame to make Hermione feel beautiful. She let out an involuntary sigh at the pleasurable sensation, but Harry must have thought she did not like it as he immediately jumped from her like a scalded cat._

_Immediately, and against her better judgment, she wanted him back. She wanted him touching her like that again._

_"You're wrong," she said, still feeling slightly punch-drunk, though whether it was from the wine or Harry, she didn't know._

_"What?" Harry asked, adorable in his confusion._

_"I did feel it. Once."_

_What was she saying? Harry's face took on a contemplative look that Hermione knew was his curious look:_

_"It was when Hagrid was forced to carry your body from the Forbidden Forest. I just... I just wanted to..." _Oh. God. What_ was she saying!? Harry had said 'the person you love most', and the person she loved most, "I wanted to die with you."_

_It slipped out without Hermione's consent. But it was true. It was all bloody true! When the person you love most dies, the only logical thing to do is die with them. If Harry was surprised, he did not let it show long, and eventually tried to return to their easygoing conversation, but Hermione was horribly flustered and found herself nearly tripping over her own feet to get away from her friend's house._

Hermione had since been able to ignore what she felt that night, blaming it on the wine, but it had come back so fast, so suddenly, when Hermione heard Draco say Harry and Greengrass had been up to such _activities_, Hermione thought she might have whiplash. And then the images, Merlin the _images_! Hermione groaned and let her head hit the table, simultaneously disgusted and titillated by the images flitting through her mind of Harry's lips on hers and his hands snaking beneath the waistband of her jeans.

* * *

11:50 AM GMT  
NIM - Narcotics Office  
Liverpool, UK

"Did you get pictures?" Daphne asked simply, looking at Dennis, who smiled widely:

"A veritable shitload," Dennis smiled, "wanna know how I figured it out?"

Dean, who had come from a meeting where each DSI and their seconds had to be present, looked suitably impressed as he stood next to Zabini, who also smiled encouragingly, despite his crass nature. "Don't keep us waiting, Creevey?"

"Hush, will you? I get enough ordering around from Greengrass," Dennis replied cheekily, "I'll get started when I damn well please."

"'Damn well please' better be within the next twenty seconds, Creevey," huffed an annoyed Daphne.

Dennis visibly gulped.

* * *

11:42 AM GMT  
Port of Naples - _Imperator_  
Naples, Italy

After finishing his pint, Harry headed back to the ship a different way than the Captain, who had likely taken his shore leave to find the nearest brothel. Heading up the gangplank, Harry found himself once again surrounded by men securing rigging lines, restocking food and tools, and a few bent over navigation charts. Harry decided he would entertain a few minutes at the forecastle and look out at the distance and watch the waves float lazily onward.

This idea, however, was shot down by a feminine voice calling out to Harry from off to the side. Harry turned to see a woman who had been helping the men secure the rigging. She smiled a dazzling smile, and though she was quite a bit older than Harry, having at least half-a-decade on Helene, she had not seemed to lose a step with age. Bright blue eyes adorned her face like jewels and hazel hair stuck out beneath her tri-corner hat. All in all, she was fetching even in her colonial garb.

"Mister James," she started, "I do believe we have business to speak of below deck."

"And what sort of business is that?"

"The important kind," she replied, a sardonic grin playing on her plush, but slightly chapped, lips.

Harry could not help but grin himself. "Ah, the best kind," he laughed a fake, easygoing laugh, already knowing whom he was talking to but needing confirmation. "Well, let's see what business we need to discuss, Miss—"

"—Mason. Miss Samantha Mason," the blue-eyed woman replied, extending her hand.

Harry peered at her through his hood, a bit concerned. Her smile looked as fake as the one he had given her.

* * *

11:43 AM GMT  
The Burrow  
Ottery St. Catchpole, UK

Hermione had left the kitchen after Mrs. Weasley shooed her out, wanting to prepare lunch for the family by herself. The young brunette allowed herself to be excused, even though she could have used some mindless work. Her mind had seemed to settled itself on going stir-crazy, and so Hermione aimless wandered about the winding house, looking for something to do. She did not want to face Ron, irrationally afraid that her boyfriend might be able to sense her lack of fidelity, and so she found herself in the sitting room, where the Weasley family clock had been moved to two years earlier.

The honey-haired woman allowed herself to study all the hands on the clock. George, Ron, Molly, Arthur, and Hermione herself all had hands pointing towards home. Bill's also read 'Home', though it likely meant Shell Cottage, rather than The Burrow. Both Percy's and Charlie's read 'Work' and Ginny's read 'Travelling', and Harry's pointed at 'Vacation'.

Damn. Harry again. Hermione looked away and studied the rough wooden floor for a moment before the door opened, revealing a radiant Ginny Weasley. She strutted in with a glowing smile. Hermione had to smile as well, perhaps Harry breaking up with her had been a good thing after all.

"Hermione!" Ginny called happily, rushing up to her older friend and giving Hermione a friendly hug. "Been busy lately?"

"Oh, yes," Hermione returned distractedly, _I'm only halfway crazy, thanks to your stupid ex-boyfriend_, "work, alongside Auror applications are becoming somewhat difficult as I get closer to the deadline, but I think with a bit of planning, I should be fine."

Ginny nodded. "I'd better go say hi to mum, we'll talk in a minute, okay?"

"Yes, of course," was Hermione's response as Ginny sauntered away. Damn it. Why did Harry have to like redheads?

And _why_ was she lamenting the fact!?

Inexplicably, Hermione's eyes were drawn back to the clock as Ginny's hand ticked 'Home'. Charlie's remained at work and Percy's had switched to 'Travelling', as it appeared he was coming to The Burrow as well.

Harry's however, was no longer pointing at 'Vacation'.

Hermione looked all over the clock face, reading each individual hand and stifled a gasp when she saw where his hand had landed.

Harry's clock-hand pointed to 'Mortal Peril'.

* * *

**A/N:** I must apologize for being a slowly-updating bastard. I'll try to be more timely next time around. As you can see, the H/Hr, Drug Trade, and Lovegood (MI-7) plots are all moving, though at a snail's pace. We get a glimpse into Hermione's state of mind, which, apparently, isn't too far from Harry's own. For all of you who love Ron, however, he won't get totally shafted in this deal, next chapter will provide a little more by way of Ron's storyline. As expected, this plot thread has been expanded on, and though I originally thought the Bulgaria mission would take two chapters (This and 'Broomspotting'), it appears it will take three. Next chapter has a bit of a funny name. I think you guys might get a kick out of it when you see it.

Chapter Notes:

Nelson's Column - Ron's view of Nelson's Column is very idealistic and free-willist, Harry's is very cynical and fatalistic. Not a coincidence.

Ginny is obviously feeling better about her break-up with Harry.

The mentioning of Bruges is a meta-reference to the film 'In Bruges' (as it would be anachronistic to be directly referenced), which stars many characters from the Harry Potter films (Ralph Fiennes, ironically, plays a character named Harry in it). A running joke in the film is that no one knows where Bruges actually is, which is the only reason why Hermione doesn't know where the city is. I wouldn't be surprised if she _did_ know.

There are also a few mostly harmless references to Assassin's Creed III in this chapter, though they won't affect the story.

Hermione falls into the same trap any others do in thinking Harry and Daphne are secretly boning each other.

Harry's version of Hermione's flashback is found in the first section of 'Delirium Tremens', 'Armistice'.

Harry has been desensitized to violence due to his direct involvement with both Death Eaters and black-op missions directly after his Auror training, therefore, while he certainly doesn't derive any sort of pleasure or satisfaction from it, Harry doesn't have very many qualms with murder. To use a Mass Effect turn-of-phrase, he's running Renegade in this playthrough.

Ron is breaking boundaries both societal and personal in waving Tracey over from the bar of that Vietnamese Restaurant. He has no idea what's about to hit him.

Daphne admits that she finds Harry trustworthy; that trust will remain for a long, long while, and even get both of them out of a few spats sooner or later.

Hermione references 'redheads' as both Ginny and Helene are redheads (though Helene's would classified as a reddish-brown), and both Hermione and Daphne are brunettes, both of whom, as far as Hermione knows, Harry harbors no feelings for.

Dennis will explain how he got his hands on the Bulgarian weapons next chapter.

The only preview I'll give for next chapter is its title: 'The Motherfucker with the Hood'.

Thanks for reading, and please leave a review!  
Geist.


	15. The Motherfucker With the Hood

**Disclaimer: **If I had written Harry Potter, more Slytherins aside from Draco would have gotten screen-time beyond a throwaway line. Once again, I prove myself an asshole by being so late. This time, however, work and Dragon Age take up the brunt blame, but mostly work I swear!

**Summary**: Dennis gets clever, The Minister gets worried, Harry gets wet, Hermione gets uncomfortable, the Narcotics Detail get late hours, Draco gets questioned.

* * *

The King of Limbs

Part 2

"That's not our tribe."  
- Capt. Luca Rossi

XI: The Motherfucker with the Hood

* * *

October 29, 2002  
12:07 PM GMT___  
Harry Potter's Residence  
_221A Sir Thomas Street, Liverpool, UK

"Goddamnit. Where is that pillock!?" Daphne growled, pounding on the door once more. Dean, who stood directly next to her, looked amused, which did not help the brunette's mercurial temper at all. "Stop grinning! Where the hell could he _be?"_

Seamus was the one who answered that question. "Daphne, what do people on holliers do?"

Before the Anti-Terrorist Auror could respond, Dennis added his own two cents with a smug look. "Oh, I don't know... _go on vacation_?"

All three chuckled at the expense of the brunette. "I called Hermione," said Dean. "Since Ron refuses to graduate to the twenty-first century and get his own mobile, calling Hermione up is the easiest way to find out where Harry is. Apparently, he just up and decided to go to Bruges."

For a second, Seamus thought he saw Daphne smile, but as quick as she did, it was gone.

The Anti-Terrorist Auror returned with a blank look. "Where?"

Seamus shrugged. "How the fuck should we know?"

"It's in Belgium," Dennis replied, earning strange looks from all present.

"So, we're out of luck, then," Daphne sighed.

"Not exactly," Dean replied, proving to be a fount of knowledge today, "Harry doesn't ever go completely off the grid. We give this info to Rodgers, and then we can have her pass it on to command in London. I'm sure DCS Stark can get this to Harry, or, at the very least, get the DoDMLE give us the right to take these guys in."

Daphne looked between all of her companions. "So... what the fuck are we doing on Potter's doorstep, then?"

"Well, you came rushing over here," Seamus replied, shrugging, which was quickly becoming a habit of his. "Harry does have his own life, as hard as that may be to believe. As chummy as you two are, he isn't here at your beck and call."

"Sod off," the brunette snarled, before turning back to Dean. "So, we ought to head back to the NIM, right?"

"That would be the plan," drawled Blaise, who leaned on the red brick of Harry's house, at the foot of the doorstep.

Daphne nodded absently as they all made for a safe place to Apparate back to headquarters. She needed another look at those weapons.

* * *

11:50 AM GMT  
_Imperator_  
Port of Naples, Naples, Italy

"Are you suggesting that crates migrate?"

"They could have been carried. Besides, they're not crossing land-borders, so they're not migrating."

"By whom!? This thing is at least three-hundred kilos!"

"You realize we can do magic, right?"

"Oh. Right."

Such was the conversation between Harry Potter and Samantha Mason as they went below deck when the striking brunette had tripped over a crate that she swore had not been there five minutes earlier. Harry merely played her fancy and engaged in this topic of conversation for a few scant moments before Mason picked herself up and strolled to what was presumably her quarters.

Once inside, she shut the door with a smile. "I assume you're here to find out my daughter's name for that oaf of a sea captain, am I right?"

Harry shrugged. "He _is_ a bit of a sketch, isn't he?"

"'A bit' is an understatement if I've ever heard one," the woman chuckled. "I don't think it's exactly good etiquette to hire out sellswords—er, sell_axes—_to cut down their crewmen, am I right?"

She eyed the tomahawk resting in the belt loop of Harry's coat dubiously. Harry laughed, looking down at the blade:

"Don't worry, I'm not going to chop you up," he replied.

The elder woman arched an eyebrow. "How _reassuring_."

"Better deal than most get," Harry said with a careless wave of the hand. Mason nodded and folded her arms, looking at the Auror contemplatively. Suddenly, she bent low and looked up, as if trying to peer underneath Harry's hood:

"Well, if we _are_ going to talk terms of getting my daughter's name out of me," she gave Harry a dazzling grin, "I'd like to at least be able to see your face, Mister James."

Harry nodded slowly. "I can do that."

He complied and lowered his hood, revealing his glamoured brown hair and gray eyes. Mason smirked:

"My, my, since when have axe-murderers been so... _fit_?" She asked, slinking his way.

Harry arched an eyebrow. "I'm one-of-a-kind."

"That," she sidled up to his chest, poking him in the sternum, "is no lie."

Harry waited for the finger to leave his chest, but it did not. Instead, her finger turned into her palm, which slowly made circles around his chest, slipping ever-so-stealthily beneath his coat. She smiled that dazzling smile again:

"You've been staying with the crewmen, have you not, Mister James?" She asked demurely. "Then you have not had a chance to take a proper bath, have you?"

"No," Harry replied, "no I haven't."

"Well that is a very fortunate coincidence, Mister James," her tone was breathy, "as it appears I have a bath, a very big one." she pointed in the general direction of a smaller room within her quarters, one that did house a bath. Though to call it big would be a huge overstatement. "Whatever shall I do in there all _alone_?"

"Bathe?" Harry deadpanned, being purposely skittish. Why was she suddenly trying to seduce him? "as normal humans do?"

Miss Mason, however, was undaunted. "Ah, I think have an _idea_! My bath is far too large for one person, so I daresay I should open it for _two_! Now, what do you think _two_ people could get up to in a bath of that size?"

"Nothing tawdry, I hope?"

"Do you want that name or not?"

"I wouldn't be opposed."

Samantha's grin was predatory as she grasped Harry's arm and dragged him toward the bath.

* * *

11:57 AM GMT  
The Burrow  
Ottery St. Catchpole, UK

Hermione still stared at the clock, not entirely sure as to what she should do. Harry's hand had been on "Mortal Peril" for no less than fifteen minutes. The way she saw it, Harry was either oblivious to the coming danger or was already in some sort of protracted scuffle. Either way, Hermione felt her heart yammering in her chest, the _thump thump_ of it beating against her ribcage growing harder and faster every second. She was quite sure that if this went on much longer, she would die of cardiac arrest.

_Though,_ she mused, somewhat cynically, _if I die, Harry will be right there with me won't he? The blasted fool._

Suddenly the clock hand shifted back to 'Travelling'. Either Harry was the luckiest person alive and just walked in and out of mortal danger, or he had just taken care of whatever trouble it was that had met him. A few minutes passed, and Hermione still found herself staring at the clock so as to make sure Harry didn't return to 'Mortal Peril'. A tall form lumbered over to Hermione, obscuring her vision of the clock. Looking up to see who had so rudely interrupted her, Hermione took in the form of her boyfriend:

"Hey," he said.

Hermione tried very hard to conceal her annoyance. "Hey."

"Saw you staring real hard at the clock," he grinned easily, "afraid Harry's gonna bite it on vacation?"

Hermione merely gave her boyfriend a wry smile. _You don't know the half of it_, she thought.

"Well," Ron drew out the word, "I doubt Harry's going to be in very much danger, in fact, I think his vacation's going to be plenty fruitful, especially if he brought blondie along."

Hermione quirked an eyebrow. "Blondie?"

"Apparently Harry's newest squeeze," Ron remarked with a chuckle. "I swear, that man goes through women faster than I do food. Ginny, then that Helene character, Greengrass—come on, you _know_ the two have got the hots for each other—and get this: a couple days ago, Ginny and I are going to grab and we pass Nelson's Column only to find who else but Harry there. He can't see us, but we can sure see him when this woman, this blonde woman who looks like she came straight out of a Norse myth, comes literally out of _nowhere_ and proceeds to suck face with Harry."

"Really," Hermione drawled, belying the fact that she actually felt really sick, "just some blonde."

"Yeah. And they looked _really_ into each other. Good on him, yeah? Harry hasn't been doing so hot these past few months, it's nice to see him somewhat happy. Even if it isn't Ginny. I'll bet he owes some of that to you."

"M-me?" Hermione stuttered; what was Ron implying?

"You know, you and Teddy. I think he likes having the little blighter around, almost like having a son, someone to _really_ watch out for and protect."

Ron paused thoughtfully. This was a moment Hermione knew all too well; whenever Ron would get that twinkle in his eye and pause mid-sentence, he was almost guaranteed to say something profound—a rarity, Hermione knew:

"An orphan, like him. Maybe Teddy's Harry's way of making up for his own childhood, by giving someone who reminds him of himself a chance at a good life. That, and he's always had a soft spot in his heart for broken things."

Hermione did her best to look scandalized but ended up softly chuckling with the redhead:

"I shouldn't be laughing at that," she remarked, relieved that Ron did not suspect her motives for spending so much time with Harry.

"Well, what a shame, because you are."

"Sod off."

"Well, at least we're all enjoying ourselves. Harry probably the most of all, if Blondie has anyth—" Ron stopped suddenly, his eyes widening in horror. Hermione shot him a quizzical glance:

"What? What's wrong?"

"He's been... those women..." He trailed off. "He's _shagged_ those women."

Hermione's quizzical look turned into a rapier one. "I don't think so, Ron. At least not Daphne. And don't talk about that, it's tawdry!"

"But he has..." Ron's head jerked up, horror dawning upon his face. "I'm gonna kill him. I'm gonna _kill_ him!"

The brunette stared in response. The redhead whirled around:

"You don't see what's going on?" exclaimed Ron, who then turned to the kitchen door, and haltingly called: "Ginny?"

"Yes?" Came his little sister's musical tone from within the other room.

"I have a few questions for you," he stood and scampered out of the room, leaving a smiling Hermione behind. "Can you come out to the sitting room for a moment?"

"Sure," replied Ginny, completely unaware of what she was getting into.

* * *

12:21 PM GMT  
_Imperator_  
Mediterranean Sea  
Five Miles from the Coast of Naples

Harry stumbled onto the upper deck of the _Imperator_, smiling dazedly. Samantha walked out into the sunlight from behind him and gave the Auror in question a wink. He coughed graciously in response and readjusted his hood.

"Fair's fair, Mister James," Mason smirked. "You did what I wanted, so I'll give you what you want."

"Just like that?" Harry asked. "No extra hoops to jump through; people to kill; weapons to smuggle across borders?"

The woman merely gave him a bemused look in response. "What a terribly exciting life you must lead."

"Oh, the best," replied Harry with a disarming grin.

"Now, you want the name?" She asked the still-grinning MI-7 agent, who nodded vigorously. The brunette leaned over and whispered it into Harry's ear, and the name that tumbled out of her mouth wiped the smile right off Harry's face.

* * *

12:33 PM GMT  
_Elian Fel Restaurant_  
Whitechapel Burrough  
London, UK

Draco looked around the restaurant aimlessly, partially wondering why he was even there. All these wizards and witches, most of them the upper crust of society—mostly Quidditch players and douchebags, he surmised—did not have a clue of what was coming for them. All these people had been through a war only four years earlier, and it seemed society had forgotten all about.

Voldemort, _one man_ with a band of lunatics (Draco himself included, at one point), brought Magical Britain to its knees. How much worse could it be should an entire nation rise up to fight? The world was shifting beneath their feet, and here they sat, dining on caviar and bouillabaisse without a care in the world.

Draco had seen some terrifying things before: The Battle of Hogwarts, Istanbul, Chernobyl. He would never be so careless as to forget those things. The state of things were fragile, they had always been fragile, perhaps because people were so good at forgetting war and suffering, but if the men at the Ministry were not careful, Britain could have another war on its hands.

And then there were all these wild cards in the picture, Philosophe, some sort of Anti-American group that seemed to be quite adept at distancing the Brits and Americans. If there were more attacks directed at American interests, Britain might lose its strongest ally. Furthermore, he now had to worry about the Ministry itself: because of Ron Weasley.

The redhead had come bursting into Draco's personal space approximately a week earlier with news he had heard from Harry about the Lovegood Murder. Apparently he had been researching a Ministry Project dating back to the Grindelwald era, hoping to utilize necromancy in the war against the apostate wizard. It apparently did not work too well, so the Ministry enacted a scorched earth policy and destroyed the facility during the Battle of London.

Now, however, Weasley was suggesting the facility had been reopened and something about the facility caused the Lovegood patriarch to be murdered. He had done his research, looking as far as his DCI position had clearance and then some and found a facility in Mareville called Neptune Valley, but beyond that, everything was classified at the highest levels of clearance.

What Draco had found, was a veritable Black Site for government programs. It could have been nothing, but given the history of the place, the blond was not optimistic.

"So, Draco," Astoria cooed, snapping her fiancé out of his daze, "Daph tells me you have a story."

"Do I now?" Draco queried, looking bemused.

His fiancée nodded vigorously. "Apparently it's about your trip to Turkey with one Harry Potter."

"And why do you want to know about that?" Sometimes Draco wondered if Astoria was a natural legilimens

"Because it interests me?" She questioned demurely.

Draco scoffed. "Because he interests Daphne, and thereby he interests you."

Astoria raised an eyebrow. "Something like that."

"It's not a terribly interesting story," Draco responded, "and I'm sure you already know some parts of it, considering how much we had to work with your department in those days."

"Only a little," was the brunette's reply. Draco let out a long-suffering sigh and turned to his fiancée and began his tale.

* * *

12:36 PM GMT  
_Imperator  
_Seven Miles from the Coast of Naples

"Freya," said Harry seriously, moments after he barged into the Captain's quarters.

"Who-wha'?" The Captain's eyes narrowed, confused.

"_Fre-ya_," Harry replied, exasperated, "your daughter's name is Freya. A first year muggleborn with that kind name will not be hard to find."

Rossi's eyes widened. "How the bloody hell 'd'you that? I've been trying for the better half of a decade and hadn't gotten so much as a peep from the little tart!"

"Perhaps you weren't persuasive enough," Harry shrugged, "now give me my information before I have to hurt you."

"'haps not," the Captain acknowledged the statement gruffly, stroking his beard with particular ferocity. Harry's hands went to his own facial hair, scratching his stubbled cheek reflexively. "You'll get your stuff soon enough. There's still a lot of sea to cover."

Harry nodded curtly. "You'd better not be fucking with me."

Rossi raised his hands up in defense. "You've given me something infinitely more important than anything I could ever give to you. I won't doublecross you for performing a miracle. I swear! There's yet a lot of water however, and these documents are very sensitive. Best keep it in the Captain's quarters for the moment."

"If you say so," replied Harry in a somewhat dubious manner. "I will see you later tonight."

* * *

12:45 PM  
Offices of the Old Irish Metre  
Anti-Terrorism Unit  
Office of DSI Barnum

Dean was content to let Daphne lead on this one. He had seen DSI Barnum once before about a month earlier, and he would happily go the rest of his life without speaking to the man again. Currently, he sat in said DSI's office with Daphne and Blaise Zabini as they made a dual-pronged attempt to convince the Minister of Magic (who sat beside the gruff senior Auror) that it was in the best interest of the realm to raid the Towers.

He had to admit, they were doing a damned good job of it; even Barnum looked impressed. Dean doubted even Harry and Ron could have run this show like Greengrass and Zabini, which was all the more amazing, because Greengrass and Zabini _hated_ each other. He still was not sure why, and Dean had the good sense not to inquire into it.

A grinning Dennis sat to his right and a bored Seamus to his left, all three Narcotics Aurors wedged into the corner. Dean sighed to himself, he was clearly a _persona non grata _in this conversation, so it was best to shut up unless addressed.

Daphne was saying something about how they had enough implicate both the dealers from bottom to the top-level, including Damian Shankly, who they could stick with having bought illegal weaponry as well. If they caught D'Arcy, it would be an even bigger victory, because the Anti-Terrorism Unit would get one of their top targets, and the Narcotics Unit would get their dealers to arrest.

Before the pretty brunette could run her mouth too much, she was interrupted by a polite cough from the Minister:

"DI Greengrass," he began, his deep basso voice reverberating through the small office, "am I to understand that we have a possible terrorist under our noses with a cache of illegal weaponry?"

"Yes," Daphne nodded, her eyes alight. Dean was mildly surprised, he had never seen the woman so excited.

The Minister coughed again. "You said DCI Potter had been going over Mr. Damian Shankly's Gringott's invoices prior to his vacation, am I correct?"

Daphne nodded again.

"And he found some anomalies?"

"Yes, sir," Blaise said sagely, "there were several large payments made out to someone in Bulgaria."

And then, something happened. For just the slightest second, the Minister looked positively alarmed. Just as quick as it happened, it was gone, however, and Dean was sure he was the only one who caught it until Seamus and Dennis exchanged looks with him. They had seen it to. When Dean brought his eyes back up to the Minister, the dark-skinned man was smiling placidly, though it seemed to be a little limp to Dean.

The Minister spoke. "You'll have your clearance, DI Greengrass. Assemble a strike team of six Aurors from our Soldier Unit and brief them for tonight. You will go in thirty minutes past midnight."

With that last order, The Minister lurched out of his seat and towards the door, his gait seemingly unhurried, Dean noted, but his posture strangely rigid.

* * *

Kingsley easily flooed from William Granath's Office on the Homicide floor after giving Ronald Weasley a distracted hello and merely waving at Granath. The DSI gave a snort and waved back, used to cursory greetings from Shacklebolt ever since he ascended to Minister of Magic. With a swirl of green flames and a shout of his destination, Kingsley found himself in the spacious office paneled in mahogany with leather couches and seats. A large table stood proudly in the center of the room, with a middle-aged woman with silver hair sitting behind it, bent over a couple of files.

"I wasn't expecting you, Minister," she said, not looking up from her work.

"Mrs. Lynch," Kingsley coughed by way of greeting. "I trust you've been well."

"As well as one can be when trying to avert a wizarding world war."

The Minister chuckled grimly. "So you sent Potter to Bulgaria?"

He spoke freely, knowing Lynch always kept her office meticulously warded. The witch stopped writing and looked up before settling back into her chair with a searching look.

"Yes, I do believe I have," she replied at length.

Kingsley nodded. "Well, he's certainly been a marble spinning around the edges of this bowl hasn't he?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, Potter's detail in the Aurors may have just found our buyer."

That got Lynch interested.

* * *

6:30 PM GMT  
The Circus Headquarters  
Location Undisclosed  
Liverpool, UK

Stella. Stella Gerrard.

It was not a name that particularly befitted her. Not like her real name, at least. Her true name rolled off the tongue, perfect in cadence, perfect in symbolizing who she was. Stella Gerrard, on the other hand, was clunky and awkward, not a name she liked at all. But, the face she had constructed went with the name well. Sure, she was not Stella Gerrard, nor could she ever be, but the raven-haired, brown-eyed avatar she'd created for herself could.

Such were the thoughts of the The Circus Agent as she marched through the lobby of Headquarters, intent on reaching the elevators. She gave a cursory greeting to Exeter as she passed by, the plain woman giving Agent Gerrard a surprisingly pretty smile.

Underneath her hood, Gerrard gave the receptionist a curt nod, maintaining an air of professionalism that she lacked in everyday life when in her 'true persona'.

"Control, Agent Gerrard is here to see you," Exeter said.

There was a pause of about five seconds before Control's gruff voice came back with a: "Send her up."

Exeter then nodded at Gerrard, indicating the elevators at the edge of the lobby that she had taken up to see Control so many times before. She walked across the goblin glass floor, boots clicking across the ground no different than a pair of heels would have. She calmly punched the button and heard the distant but silent whirring of the lift slowly descending toward the ground floor.

A moment later, the doors opened and Gerrard stepped inside.

The ride up the elevator was silent, and Gerrard remained facing forward until the lift doors opened, and she was greeted with that spectacular golden globe sculpture suspended, seemingly, in mid-air. The Agent did not dwell for long on the little red dots popping up all over the map and instead continued down the corridor to the large double-doors that housed Control's office.

She knocked.

"Enter," came a voice from inside.

Gerrard complied, softly opening the door and moving toward a seat that Control was pointing at:

"So," Gerrard began, "I've uncovered some disturbing evidence."

Control peered at her from beneath his hood. "And what might that evidence be?"

"You told me Potter was on a mission to Bulgaria—"

"—Which I told you in good confidence, Gerrard. Do not give me reason to not trust you."

"You don't have to worry about that, sir," Gerrard snorted. "There are rumblings from the New Irish Metre that a cache of illegal weapons have been found in the drug tenements Potter's been investigating for his Auror team. Along with having a suspected terrorist in their ranks, we think they're a front for Philosophe. Judge had granted permission for a raid. A strike team will be converging on their safehouse at half-past midnight."

"Oh, just _rumblings_?" His tone was amused.

Gerrard crossed her arms. "Yes. _Rumblings_. And Potter recently found numerous payments made to a source in Bulgaria."

"You're thinking..."

"Yes, that the Bulgarian arms dealer Potter's looking for is the recipient of the money sent out of Damian Shankly's account. This means that if we trace the money through the back-channels, we can give Potter a better lead than MI-7 did."

"Hm. Risky, and possibly coincidental, though not likely, but it's worth a shot," Control agreed, placing his elbows on his large oaken desk, lacing his fingers together and resting his chin on them. "The news was shocking, wasn't it?"

"Necromancy? I damn near passed out when I first heard about it, had to go back to my parents just to sort it out. If that's what our government was doing, you and Potter are getting in deep—"

"—Oh we have much bigger problems than something that happened fifty years ago. Something happened in Mareville around twenty years ago. Something that killed off the magical creatures and people living inside the city."

"I thought it was a testing facility."

Control grimaced. "I'm not sure what it is anymore. Some say it was a city, others a research facility, and even others saying it was a city for Unspeakables working at the research facility."

"So," Gerrard began thoughtfully, leaning forward, "is that why you've got the Boy Wonder sucking up to MI-7?"

"Boy Wonder?" The hooded man questioned, a faint trace of amusement in his tone, "I thought you two were getting to like each other."

"He isn't altogether hateful."

Control shook his head, a smile playing at his lips. "Get back to me when you've got something."

"Yes, sir."

Control opened a drawer and withdrew a seeming normal pen. As he handed it to Gerrard, he explained: "Portkey. It'll take you back to your hotel room."

"Perfect," the raven-haired agent said, before taking it into her hands. Gerrard felt the familiar tug at her navel and the world spun around her until she was back in her hotel room. Moving quickly, Gerrard stripped out of her combat robes and settled for something more casual: a pair of black jeans, a tee-shirt, and comfortable shoes before she threw on a wool peacoat and stepped in front of the mirror.

Her hair lengthened and lightened in shade to a dark brown. Her eyes, once a dull, plain brown became a lively and yet ice-cold blue. The soft features of Stella Gerrard contorted into her normal angular features, as if she were an exceptionally beautiful granite statue.

With a careless toss of her hair, she sped out of her room and down the elevator. She passed the lobby where the kind young porter gave her a goofy hello, no doubt besotted with her. She pushed the revolving doors open; the biting northerly wind slapped at her cheeks.

And then she stepped out into the night.

* * *

9:00 PM GMT  
Mediterranean Sea  
100 miles from Varna  
_Imperator_

Harry walked out onto the deck, nodding at Donald Cairn, who was once again watching the foremast. The other man flashed him a toothy grin, and Harry was struck by how genial the man looked. A slight stab of guilt pierced his stomach when Harry thought of how close he had been to murdering the man in cold blood. He probably would have done it without regrets, either.

But, it would not do to dwell over that now, especially considering Cairn was still alive. So, Harry went over to the sailor and initiated a polite conversation with him. It was short, sweet, and to the point. The point being, Cairn was still gushing over Krum's Bulgarian National Team. Another sailor who had been working the deck looked somewhat preoccupied and kept looking at the hole that led below deck, as if he had forgotten something. Harry remembered that the sailor had been following Miss Mason and him around before their little fling in the privy.

"Waiting on someone, mate?" Harry questioned, a quiet sense of unease filling him up. Even Cairn noticed his watch-partner tense:

"Yeah, what's the matter, Tim?"

The young man looked up, alarmed. "N... no, sir. Just a little chilly is all." He ran a hand through straw-blond hair to provide an air of nonchalance. It did not fool Harry. But he did not do anything about it.

"I see. Carry on, then," Harry replied, before turning back to Cairn and finishing his conversation with the man, before he plodded toward the Captain's quarters and was greeted with a screaming match between the Captain and his First Mate.

Rossi was red-faced. "So, you meet this man and _five minutes_ after you do, you decide to _shag_ him!?"

Mason was also livid, though her anger seemed to stem out of a sense of righteousness. "And who are _you_ to decide who I can fuck!? I don't see a wedding ring on my finger!"

"That's not the point! The point is that I've been after you eleven years for th—" His tirade presently stopped when Harry entered the room. Mason also quieted down, and turned to look at the out-of-place MI-7 agent:

It was rather similar to a surprise birthday party for Harry, only that everyone present was angry at him rather than happy for him. He could almost picture a sad clown in the corner. So, being Harry Potter, instead of taking the moment seriously, he cracked a joke:

"The way you two go on! People will talk."

Which, in hindsight, was a _terrible _decision.

Rossi rounded on him, looking for all the world like a furious bull about to charge. "Look you fucking piece of _shite_! You think you're James-fucking-Bond!? You think can just go around shagging any fucking twat you see!?"

"_Twat_?" Mason roared, toppling over several knick-knacks on Rossi's table as she torpedoed to her feet. "You self-righteous, _sanctimonious_ excuse for a bum-boy loving c—"

"_Enough_!" Harry yelled. "Both of you are thirty-fucking-five years old; act your age!"

Mason calmed somewhat, but apparently couldn't help but throw in one last jab: "Yes, our age: Past the age of consent!" Harry shot her a rapier glance in response. The same glare that Rossi was giving him.

"Look at you, the Great Pacifier," he shot snidely, "doing more negotiating with your cock than your mouth, yeah?"

"To be fair," Harry shrugged, "there was a decent amount of mouth involved."

Miss Mason grinned; Captain Rossi turned a most exquisite shade of puce.

"But never mind that," the MI-7 hopeful continued, "I got your name, didn't I? I have a friend who works for the Aurors. And I know some people who work at The Daily Prophet. Your little girl is safe and sound at Hogwarts under the name Freya Thompson. You can go and tell her you're her deadbeat daddy later. For now stop whingeing, and cheer the fuck up."

"Why you—! She's my—"

"—I'm your _w__hat_?" Mason questioned dangerously.

"I don't think you have any right to criticize me over cuckolding anyone, do you? Or did you forget one Mister Donald Cairn?" Harry grinned savagely. The Captain stood down, but still looked mutinous. "Oh good, you're done. Now give me my papers, and I'll be on my way."

The Captain walked to his desk, wrenched a drawer open, and pulled out a manila file. With a few fluid steps, he handed the file to Harry, who accepted it with a graceful, albeit sarcastic, bow.

"Now, Miss Mason," Harry started, remembering the man on the deck with Cairn, "have your men been acting strangely lately?"

Mason shook her head, confused. "Strangely how?"

A loud crack outside the outside the door startled all three of them. A crack that sounded rather suspiciously like a gunshot.

"Oh, I dunno," Harry shrugged nonchalantly, "like, shooting each other, strangely?"

Mason did not look amused. That look, however, only lasted a moment until another loud crack busted the door's lock and it swung open, revealing five men armed with muskets and their wands. The spring-loaded dagger and tomahawk were immediately in Harry's hands and wands were in both of his companions.

"That was a pretty door!" Harry called out, mock-offended, "why destroy it? You could have sold it, at the very least!"

"Hands above your heads," the leader of them (coincidentally, the man Harry had seen with Cairn a few minutes earlier) said, smiling lazily, as if he was merely toying with them. "Wouldn't want this to get ugly."

"No, no, we wouldn't want that indeed, would we, gents?" Rossi gave a brief attempt at pacifying the motley crew. "And what exactly is this... _display_?"

The leader's lip curled. "Are you being daft? We're takin' yer ship from you."

"Come on, let's be realistic. This is a _government_ frigate!"

"Dun' care."

"Stop this foolishness—" Mason began, but Harry was already gone.

The quick apparition had stunned the coterie, and in that time, the leader went down, his throat slashed. A pitiful gurgle came up from the previously smug man as the crimson liquid stained the fine oak floor. The momentary stun shook off and the other four tried aim their muskets at Harry but he was far too close to manage a half-decent shot.

Calling on magic to coat his body in an intense white haze, a trick learned from his friends at The Circus, Harry barreled forward into the group, the resulting discharge of pure magic blasted the would-be attackers back. One was felled by a powerful wandless reductor to the face, only bloody chunks remaining of it. Whirling around, Harry flicked his wrist and felt the familiar wood of his wand in his hand as well.

He pointed at one of the man who was starting to recover from the earlier charge and roared "_Stupefy_!", catching the would be rebel in the chest. By this time, the last two had stood up, one aiming a musket at him, the other a wand. One was standing mid-deck, the other, by a railing.

Thus, Harry made use of his flash apparition talent and transported himself to the wand-carrying rebel by the railings. Dispensing with all pretense of wand-fighting, Harry gave the man a swift roundhouse kick with just enough force to topple him over the railing. The satisfying sound of a splash registered a few seconds later, along with the crack of gunfire, and a scream from Miss Mason.

This was followed by a stinging pain in Harry's arm. He looked down to see a nasty-looking cut on his right triceps area, gifted from a musket ball that had just grazed his arm. The shooter, gritted his teeth and went for his wand but was struck down by a jet of red light before Harry could even react. The MI-7 agent turned to see Rossi holding his wand, and blowing at the tip as if it were the smoking end of a revolver.

"Nice work," Harry complimented.

"Thank you," Rossi smiled.

Mason, however, looked a little bit frightened. "Congratulate each other later. Twelve o'clock!"

Another man stood near the bow of the ship, a musket aimed straight at Rossi. He looked terrified, but nevertheless cocked the safety. Time slowed down. The man's finger touched the trigger. Rossi flinched, but did not move. Just as he was about to fire, Harry noticed something shadowy materialize behind the shooter and heard a metallic twang as something smacked against his head. The would-be shooter slumped to the ground unceremoniously, revealing a grinning Donald Cairn behind him, holding up one of the recently liberated muskets.

"Oi, hell of a party we've got up here!" He called out blithely.

"Oh, the best!" Rossi yelled back, apparently forgetting his previous wish to kill the man.

In the wake of their revelry, only Harry was the one to notice another unit of hastily armed musketeers emerging from below deck. "Hate to break it to you fellows, but I think it's best we abandon ship!"

"Abandon ship!?" Rossi looked as though he had eaten something foul.

Mason shrugged. "I'm with Mr. James on this one. Perhaps if you'd treated your crew a bit better—"

"—Perhaps if you didn't fuck everything that moved—" was Rossi's hot retort.

"—Children please!" Harry shouted, though his voice was drowned out by another round of a musket firing. His eyes caught Cairn taking a shot to the leg and stumble somewhat. "I get it: Rossi, you're a womanizing bastard and you'd probably would make a horrible father; Mason, you're a painted shrew and it really actually is kind of gross that you're _that_ easy. Now _jump_!"

Harry made his way across the deck, unholstering the magicked flintlock that had been gifted to him by the Headmaster and aiming it at the mutinous crew. He squeezed the trigger, an unholy crack emerged from the barrel, and suddenly, one of the attackers was down. The sudden shock of one of their men being killed from the gunfire stunned them for a few short seconds, but it was enough to take Cairn by the arm and turn toward the ledge to see Rossi and Mason diving off. He inspected Cairn's wound quickly and found that it the shot had lodged itself inside the leg; that would have to be taken care of once they got to Varna.

Moving as fast as he could with the injured sailor, Harry leaped off the edge of the boat and into the water and immediately set out to making sure the files Rossi had given him were unharmed by the water. Another crack and bullet sailing past his ear prompted Harry to seek out Mason and Rossi, who were a few meters away from Cairn and himself.

"Have you been to Varna before?" He shouted above the waves at Rossi. Another bullet sailed into the water, this time accompanied by a sickly yellow curse.

"Yes!"

"Any designated apparition points?"

"I know of one," Mason replied, with a smile, in place of Rossi.

"Get us there!" Harry all but shouted, taking the groaning Cairn's hand and Mason's, whilst she linked up with Rossi and he with Cairn once more. The second between when Mason closed her eyes and apparition took far too long in Harry's opinion, but sure enough, that familiar discomfort of being squeezed through a tube four sizes too small crept up on Harry, pulling them up towards the sky and onward.

And then, they were gone.

* * *

10:30 PM GMT  
(2 Hours to Irola Tower Raid)  
NIM Narcotics Office  
Birkenhead, Liverpool, UK

"Look alive Creevey, we're on in two," Seamus lightly slapped the back of the dozing MLE agent's head.

Dennis looked confused, blinked a couple of times, and then focused on the Irishman. "We're going in with them?"

"Have to, it's policy. And we all have the same training, whatever SO13 like to say to make themselves feel bigger," Seamus shrugged.

"I take offense to that," Daphne said from somewhere in the corner, "after all, I am SO13."

"Well, I'd say you're in no danger of worrying about your prick, then. In fact, I'd bet you sickles to galleons it's bigger than rest of Anti-Terrorism combined." the Irishman joked. Daphne narrowed her eyes but made no response otherwise.

Instead, she opted to get serious. "Hope we get the right guy. No offense, but a couple of drug dealers aren't really worth a schilling compared to Nicholas D'Arcy. Apparently they'd been after him even before we came on the job."

"I may be acting the maggot here, but I'd say your fancy French terrorist is worth about as much as a hurley to a kerry man as us," Seamus replied with a smile.

"How could you miss him?" Dennis suddenly broke in, and both the brunette and the Irishman exchanged confused looks at the blond's seeming non-sequitur. "D'Arcy, I mean. It's not like his wardrobe is really varied: just look for the motherfucker in the hood."

Seamus laughed. "Dennis, my boy, it's late October in the bloody Midlands. Who _isn't_ a motherfucker in a hood right now?"

* * *

Varna, Bulgaria  
_Asparuhov Most_  
Outside the Asparuhov Magical Quarter

Harry adjusted his hood. He looked around anxiously, realizing he might look strange to any passing muggle with all of his weapons and three bedraggled sailors following behind him.

"Bloody hell, James," Mason grit out, breathing heavily. "Not all of us are warhorses; we need a break. Cairn can barely even walk!" As if on cue, the injured Cairn groaned and stumbled, saved from faceplanting into the ground by Rossi.

Harry turned back and looked at the woman as if she had grown a second head. "We're on the middle of a _bridge_, see any good camping spots around here? Maybe one where we won't be hit by a car?"

Mason glared but shut up nonetheless, something Harry was eternally grateful for. He continued walking forward as the Asparuhov Quarter suddenly shimmered in the distance and revealed the Magical Quarter.

Several minutes and a lot of complaining later, the motley crew had made it to an inn on Kursk Street that Harry had been told to go to when he got in contact with his MI-7 handlers to help with Cairn's leg. He believed it was the old woman that had given him the mission to begin with. She told him to wait at the inn until the next morning when an en route KGB Agent and a Bulgarian Official would come to see him. Until then, he needed to find another ship and crew, and that was that.

The odd trio gathered at a table with several pints as the proprietor (a healer set up by MI-7) set about fixing up the injured sailor.

"I need your help," Harry started.

"Well we can't stick around for this," Rossi was saying, "we're sailors, not killers. That's not our tribe."

Mason nodded "Much as I hate to, I can't help but agree. You killed two men like it was nothing, Mr. James. I can't honestly say I could do the same."

"And I wouldn't ask you to involve yourself directly, but I do need a ship," Harry replied. "Stay around the docks, and find yourself a crew and ship. We can provide money for either. Just, head to bed for tonight, we'll talk more tomorrow."

The two nodded, and vacated their seats, leaving Harry alone to his thoughts and plans.

After checking up on the injured Cairn to find out he would make a full recovery, Harry left the building in attempt to acquaint himself with his new surroundings.

* * *

**A/N:** This chapter was surprisingly difficult to write. Every time I felt I was just about to get into a groove, I sort of lost it. The chapter was originally supposed to be 10-12,000 words. That obviously didn't happen, so expect a somewhat longer chapter next time around.

No excuses, I'm sorry.

Chapter Notes:

The Lovegood murder is starting to attract some real attention from the Aurors.

SO13: Special Operations 13, Britain's Anti-Terrorism Units

The thing I can best compare Harry's charge attack would be a Biotic Charge in Mass Effect Series if you play Vanguard.

I think I made it pretty obvious who Stella is, but if you don't know, that's good. Maybe I'm better at suspense than I thought, though I highly doubt it.

Lynch is the woman who was talking to Harry with Stark last chapter.

Rossi and Mason are a sort of quasi-parody of Ron and Hermione if their worst attributes were expanded and played upon.

Next chapter we'll see the raid on the towers, Ron and Tracey get closer to the truth in the Lovegood Case, and Harry learns about the state of affairs in Bulgaria and tries to weed out a group of freedom fighters.

Sorry again,  
Geist.


End file.
